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

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

"Harry, you'll act, will you not?" asked I.

"Not if you can contrive to do without me," was the ~342~~ reply. "I did it once, and never was so tired in my life before. I suppose you mean to have speaking charades; and there is something in the feeling that one has so many words to recollect, which obliges one to keep the memory always on the stretch, and the attention up to concert pitch, in a way that is far too fatiguing to be agreeable."

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

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

"The first thing is to find out a good word," returned Coleman.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes! that will do; come here, Freddy," added I, and, drawing him on one side, I communicated to him my ideas on the subject, of which, after suggesting one or two improvements on my original design, he was graciously pleased to approve. Of what this idea consisted, the reader will be apprised in due time. Suffice it at present ~343~~ to add, that Fanny having consented to perform the part of a barmaid, and it being necessary to provide her with a lover, Lawless volunteered for the character, and supported his claim with so much perseverance, not to say obstinacy, that Coleman, albeit he considered him utterly unsuited to the part, was fain to yield to his importunity.

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

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

The entertainments began with certain tableaux-vivants, in which both Harry and I took a part; the former having been induced to do so by the assurance that nothing would-be expected of him but to stand still and be looked at—an occupation which even he could not consider very hard work: and exceedingly well worth looking at he appeared when the curtain drew up, and discovered him as the Leicester in Scott's novel of Kenilworth; the ~344~~ magnificent dress setting off his noble figure to the utmost advantage; while Fanny, as Amy Robsart, looked prettier and more interesting than I had ever seen her before. Various tableaux were in turn presented, and passed off with much eclat, and then there was a pause, before the charade, the grand event of the evening, commenced. Oaklands and I, having nothing to do in it (Fanny having coaxed Mr. Frampton into undertaking a short part which I was to have performed, but which she declared was so exactly suited to him that she would never forgive him if he refused to fill it), wished the actors success, and came in front to join the spectators.

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

Scene I.

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

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

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

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

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

Susan. Bad enough, I can tell you; Missus has plenty to bear, poor thing!

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

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

John. No, it ain't either of them.

Susan. Who is it then?

John. Well, if thee must needs know, the party's name is Susan.

Susan (still with an air of unconsciousness). Let me see, where is there a Susan? let me think a minute. Oh! ~345~~ one of Darling the blacksmith's girls, I dare say; it's Susan Darling!

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

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

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



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

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

Susan. Coming, sir, coming. (Wipes her eyes with her apron.)

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

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

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

Susan. Oh, sir! John was just coming, sir; and so was I, sir, if you please.

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

John. So she does, master, sure-ly.

Landlord. Hold your tongue, fool—what do you know about it? (Bell rings.) There, do you hear that? run ~346~~ and see who that is, or I shall lose a customer by your carelessness next. Oh! the bother of servants—oh! the trouble of keeping an inn! (Hobbles out, driving Susan and John before him. Curtain falls.)

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

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

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

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

Scene II.—Best room in the inn.

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

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

Susan. Yes, sir. What would you please to like, sir?

~347~~ Hyacinth (looking at her with his glass still in his eye). Hem! pwetty gal—ar—like, my dear, like?—(vewy pwetty gal!)

Susan. Beg pardon, sir, what did you say you would like?

Hyacinth. Chickens tender here, my dear?

Susan. Very tender, sir.

Hyacinth (approaching her). What's your name, my dear?

Susan. Susan, if you please, sir.

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

Hyacinth (angrily). Now, fellar, where are you pushing to, eh?

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

Hyacinth. Looking for me, fellar?

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

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

John. No, sir, I ain't a-going. When shall I water him, sir?

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

John. Werry good, sir; and how about hay, sir?

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

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

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

John. Do you like his feet stopped at night, sir?

Hyacinth. Ar—I leave all these points to my gwoom—ar—would you go?

John. I suppose there will be no harm in water-brushing his mane?

Hyacinth (angrily). Ar—weally I—ar—will you go?

John. Becos some folks thinks it makes the hair come off.

~348~~ Hyacinth (indignantly). Ar—leave the woom, fellar! John. Yes, sir; you may depend upon me takin' proper care of him, sir; and if I should think o' anything else, I'll be sure to come and ask you, sir. (Goes out grinning.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Susan. When I do, sir, I'll be sure to let you know. ~349~~ (Aside. A dandified fop! why, John's worth twenty such as him.) I'll send John in with your dinner, sir. [Curtsies and exit, leaving Hyacinth transfixed with astonishment.']

Scene III.—Front of inn.

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

"John and Betsey Shortoats."

[Susan tears the letter, bursts into tears, and sinks back into a chair fainting—curtain drops.]~350~~



CHAPTER XLIV — CONFESSIONS

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

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

"....That which I would discover, The law of friendship bids me to conceal." —Two Gentlemen of Verona.

"Tarry I here, I but attend on death; But fly I hence, I fly away from life."

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

"Do you know what it is, Mr. Oaklands?" asked the second Miss Simper.

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

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

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

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

"Have you?" said the youngest Miss Simper, who, being as nearly a fool as it is possible to allow that a pretty girl of seventeen can be, rested her pretensions upon a plaintive voice and a pensive smile, which went ~351~~ just far enough to reveal an irreproachable set of teeth, and then faded away into an expression of gentle sorrow, the source of which, like that of the Niger, had as yet remained undiscovered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This is a matter I leave entirely to themselves; if ~352~~ Lawless wishes to marry Fanny, and she likes him well enough to accept him, and his parents approve of the arrangement, I shall make no objection: it would be a very good match for her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next morning I was aroused from an uneasy sleep by the sun shining brightly through my shutters, and, springing out of bed, and throwing open the window, I perceived that it was one of those lovely winter days ~353~~ which appear sent to assure us that fogs, frost, and snow will not last for ever, but that Nature has brighter things in store for us, if we will bide her time patiently. To think of lying in bed on such a morning was out of the question, so, dressing hastily, I threw on a shooting jacket, and sallied forth for a stroll. As I wandered listlessly through the park, admiring the hoar-frost which glittered like diamonds in the early sunshine, clothing the brave old limbs of the time-honoured fathers of the forest with a fabric of silver tissue, the conversation I had held with Mr. Frampton about Fanny and Lawless recurred to my mind. Strange that Harry Oaklands and Mr. Frampton—men so different, yet alike in generous feeling and honourable principle—should both evidently disapprove of such a union: was I myself, then, so blinded by ideas of the worldly advantages it held forth, that I was unable to perceive its unfitness? Would Lawless really prize her, as Tennyson has so well expressed it in his finest poem, as

"Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse"?

and was I about to sacrifice my sister's happiness for rank and fortune, those world-idols which, stripped of the supposititious attributes bestowed upon them by the bigotry of their worshippers, appear, in their true worth-lesaness, empty breath and perishable dross? But most probably there was no cause for uneasiness; after all, I was very likely worrying myself most unnecessarily: what proof was there that Lawless really cared for Fanny? His attentions—oh! there was nothing in that—Lawless was shy and awkward in female society, and Fanny had been kind to him, and had taken the trouble to draw him out, therefore he liked her, and preferred talking and laughing with her, rather than with any other girl with whom he did not feel at his ease. However, even if there should be anything more in it, it had not gone so far but that a little judicious snubbing would easily put an end to it—I determined, therefore, to talk to my mother about it after breakfast: she had now seen enough of Lawless to form her own opinion of him; and if she agreed with Oaklands and Mr. Frampton that his was not a style of character calculated to secure Fanny's happiness, we must let her go and stay with the Colemans, or find some other means of separating them. I had just arrived at this conclusion, when, on passing round the stem of an old tree which stood in the path, I encountered ~354~~ some person who was advancing rapidly in an opposite direction, meeting him so abruptly that we ran against each other with no small degree of violence.

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

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

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

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

"Eh! I won't keep you five minutes, but you see this sort of thing will never do at any price; I'm all wrong altogether—sometimes I feel as if fire and water would not stop me, or cart-ropes hold me—then again I grow as nervous as an old cat with the palsy, and sit moping in a corner like an owl in fits. Last hunting-day I was just as if I was mad—pressed upon the pack when they were getting away—rode over two or three of the tail hounds, laid 'em sprawling on their backs, like spread eagles, till the huntsman swore at me loud enough to split a three-inch oak plank—went slap at everything that came in my way—took rails, fences, and timber, all flying, rough and smooth as nature made 'em—in short, showed the whole field the way across country at a pace which rather astonished them, I fancy;—well, at last there was a check, and before the hounds got on the scent again, something seemed to come over me, so that I could not ride a bit, and kept cranning at mole-hills and shirking gutters, till I wound up by getting a tremendous purl from checking my horse at a wretched little fence that he could have stepped over, and actually I felt so fainthearted that I gave it up as a bad job, and rode home ~355~~ ready to eat my hat with vexation. But I know what it is, I'm in love—that confounded Charade put me up to that dodge. I fancied at first that I had got an ague, one of those off-and-on affairs that always come just when you don't want them, and was going to ask Ellis to give me a ball, but I found it out just in time, and precious glad I was too, for I never could bear taking physic since I was the height of sixpenny worth of halfpence."

"Really, Lawless, I must be getting home."

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

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

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

"In loco parentis is what you are aiming at, I imagine," returned I.

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

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

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

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

"What! my governor? oh! he'd be so delighted to get me married at any price, that he would not care who it was to, so that she was a lady. He knows how I shirk female society in general, and he is afraid I shall break my neck some of these fine days, and leave him the ~356~~ honour of being the last Lord Cashingtown as well as the first."

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

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

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

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

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

As I walked towards home my meditations assumed a somewhat gloomy colouring. The matter was no longer doubtful, Lawless was Fanny's declared suitor; this, as he had himself observed, was something like doing business. Instead of planning with my mother how we could prevent the affair from going any farther, I must now inform her of his offer, and find out whether she could give me any clue as to the state of Fanny's affections. And now that Lawless's intentions were certain, and that it appeared by no means improbable he might succeed in obtaining Fanny's hand, a feeling of repugnance came over me, and I began to think Mr. Frampton was right, and that my sister was formed for better things than to be the companion for life of such a man as Lawless. From a reverie which thoughts like these had engendered, I was aroused by Harry Oaklands' favourite ~357~~ Scotch terrier, which attracted my attention by jumping and fawning upon me, and on raising my eyes I perceived the figure of his master, leaning, with folded arms, against the trunk of an old tree. As we exchanged salutations I was struck by an unusual air of dejection both in his manner and appearance. "You are looking ill and miserable this morning, Harry; is your side painful?" inquired I anxiously.

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean, my dear Harry?" replied I; "what can you refer to?"

"Have you not thought me very much altered of late?" he continued.

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

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

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

"Why, indeed! because in my blindness I fancied the affection I entertained for your sister was merely a brother's love, and did not know, till the chance of losing her for ever opened my eyes effectually, that she had ~358~~ become so essential to my happiness that life without her would be a void. If you but knew the agony of mind I endured while they wore acting that hateful charade last night! I quite shudder when I think how I felt towards Lawless; I could have slain him where he stood without a shadow of compunction. No, I must leave this place without delay; I would not go through what I suffered yesterday again for anything—I could not bear it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing of the kind must be attempted," replied Oaklands sternly; "could I obtain your sister's hand tomorrow by merely raising my finger, I would not do so while there remained a possibility of her preferring Lawless. Do you imagine that I could be content to be accepted out of compassion? No," he added, more calmly, "the die will soon be cast; till then I will remain; and if, as I fear is only too certain, Lawless's suit is favourably received, I shall leave this place instantly—put it on the score of health—make Ellis order me abroad—the German ~359~~ baths, Madeira, Italy, I care not, all places will be alike to me then."

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

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

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

So saying, he wrung my hand with a pressure that vouched for his returning strength, and left me. In spite of my walk, I had not much appetite for my breakfast that morning.~360~~



CHAPTER XLV — HELPING A LAME DOG OVER A STILE

"Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme; I have tried.... No, I was not born under a rhyming planet; Nor I cannot woo in festival terms." —Much Ado About Nothing.

"Now, let the verses be bad or good, it plainly amounts to a regular offer. I don't believe any of the lines are an inch too long or too short; but if they were, it would be wicked to alter them, for they are really genuine." —Thinks I to Myself.

"We shall have a rare letter from him." —Twelfth Night.

IT was usually my custom of an afternoon to read law for a couple of hours, a course of training preparatory to committing myself to the tender mercies of a special pleader; and as Sir John's well-stored library afforded me every facility for so doing, that was the venue I generally selected for my interviews with Messrs. Blackstone, Coke upon Lyttelton, and other legal luminaries. Accordingly, on the day in question, after having nearly quarrelled with my mother for congratulating me warmly on the attainment of my wishes, when I mentioned to her Lawless's proposal, found fault with Fanny's Italian pronunciation so harshly as to bring tears into her eyes, and grievously offended our old female domestic by disdainfully rejecting some pet abomination upon which she had decreed that I should lunch, I sallied forth, and, not wishing to encounter any of the family, entered the hall by a side door, and reached the library unobserved. To my surprise I discovered Lawless (whom I did not recollect ever to have seen there before, he being not much given to literary pursuits) seated, pen in hand, at the table, apparently absorbed in the mysteries of composition.

"I shall not disturb you, Lawless," said I, taking down a book. "I am only going to read law for an hour or two."

"Eh! disturb me?" was the reply; "I'm uncommon glad to be disturbed, I can tell you, for hang me if I can make head or tail of it! Here have I been for the last three hours trying to write an offer to your sister, and actually have not contrived to make a fair start of it yet. I wish you would lend me a hand, there's a good fellow—I know you are up to all the right dodges—just give one a sort of notion, eh? don't you see?"

"What! write an offer to my own sister? Well, of all the quaint ideas I ever heard, that's the oddest—really you must excuse me."

~~361~~ "Very odd, is it?" inquired Coleman, opening the door in time to overhear the last sentence. "Pray let me hear about it, then, for I like to know of odd things particularly; but, perhaps, I'm intruding?"

"Eh? no; come along here, Coleman," cried Lawless, "you are just the very boy I want—I am going to be married—that is, I want to be, don't you see, if she'll have me, but there's the rub; Frank Fairlegh is all right, and the old lady says she's agreeable, so everything depends on the young woman herself—if she will but say 'Yes,' we shall go ahead in style; but, unfortunately before she is likely to say anything one way or the other, you understand, I've got to pop the question, as they call it. Now, I've about as much notion of making an offer as a cow has of dancing a hornpipe—so I want you to help us a bit—eh?"

"Certainly," replied Freddy courteously; "I shall be only too happy, and as delays are dangerous I had perhaps better be off at once—where is the young lady?"

"Eh! hold hard there! don't go quite so fast, young man," exclaimed Lawless aghast; "if you bolt away at that pace you'll never see the end of the run; why, you don't suppose I want you to go and talk to her—pop the question viva voce, do you? You'll be advising me to be married by deputy, I suppose, next. No, no, I'm going to do the trick by letter—something like a Valentine, only rather more so, eh? but I can't exactly manage to write it properly. If it was but a warranty for a horse, now, I'd knock it off in no time, but this is a sort of thing, you see, I'm not used to; one doesn't get married as easily as one sells a horse, nor as often, eh? and it's rather a nervous piece of business—a good deal depends upon the letter."

"You've been trying your hand at it already, I see," observed Coleman, seating himself at the table; "pretty consumption of paper! I wonder what my governor would say to me if I were to set about drawing a deed in this style; why, the stationer's bill would run away with all the profits."

"Never mind the profits, you avaricious Jew," replied Lawless. "Yes, I've been trying effects, as the painters call it—putting down two or three beginnings to find out which looked the most like the time of day—you understand?"

"Two or three?" repeated Coleman, "six or seven rather, voyons. 'Mr. Lawless presents his affections to Miss Fairlegh, and requests the hon....' Not a bad ~362~~ idea, an offer in the third person—the only case in which a third person would not be de trop in such an affair."

"Eh! yes, I did the respectful when I first started, you know, but I soon dropped that sort of thing when I got warm; you'll see, I stepped out no end afterwards."

"'Honoured Miss,'" continued Coleman, reading, "'My sentiments, that is, your perfections, your splendid action, your high breeding, and the many slap-up points that may be discerned in you by any man that has an eye for a horse...'"

"Ah! that was where I spoiled it," sighed Lawless.

"Here's a very pretty one," resumed Freddy. "'Adorable and adored Miss Fanny Fairlegh, seeing you as I do with the eyes' (Why she would not think you saw her with your nose, would she?)' of fond affection, probably would induce me to overlook any unsoundness or disposition to vice...'"

"That one did not turn out civilly, you see," said Lawless, "or else it wasn't such a bad beginning."

"Here's a better," rejoined Coleman. "'Exquisitely beautiful Fanny, fairest of that lovely sex, which to distinguish it from us rough-and-ready fox-hunters, who, when once we get our heads at any of the fences of life, go at it, never mind how stiff it may be (matrimony has always appeared to me one of the stiffest), and generally contrive to find ourselves on the other side, with our hind legs well under us;—a sex, I say, which to distinguish it from our own, is called the fair sex, a stock of which I never used to think any great things, reckoning them only fit to canter round the parks with, until I saw you brought out, when I at once perceived that your condition—that is, my feelings—were so inexpressible that...!'" "Ah!" interposed Lawless, "that's where I got bogged, sank in over the fetlocks, and had to give it up as a bad job."

"In fact your feelings became too many for you," returned Coleman; "but what have we here?—verses, by all that's glorious!"

"No, no! I'm not going to let you read them," exclaimed Lawless, attempting to wrest the paper out of his hand.

"Be quiet, Lawless," rejoined Coleman, holding him off, "sit down directly, sir, or I won't write a word for you: I must see what all your ideas are in order to get some notion of what you want to say; besides, I've no doubt they'll be very original."

~363~~

I

"'Sweet Fanny, there are moments When the heart is not one's own, When we fain would clip its wild wing's tip, But we find the bird has flown.

II

"'Dear Fanny, there are moments When a loss may be a gain, And sorrow, joy—for the heart's a toy, And loving's such sweet pain.

III

"'Yes, Fanny, there are moments When a smile is worth a throne, When a frown can prove the flower of love, Must fade, and die alone.'

—"Why, you never wrote those, Lawless?"

"Didn't I?" returned Lawless, "but I know I did, though—copied them out of an old book I found up there, and wrote some more to 'em, because I thought there wasn't enough for the money, besides putting in Fanny's name instead of—what, do you think?—Phillis!—there's a name for you; the fellow must have been a fool. Why, I would not give a dog such an ill name for fear somebody should hang him; but go on."

"Ah, now we come to the original matter," returned Coleman, "and very original it seems."

IV

"'Dear Fanny, there are moments When love gets you in a fix, Takes the bit in his jaws, and, without any pause, Bolts away with you like bricks.

V

"'Yes, Fanny, there are moments When affection knows no bounds, When I'd rather be talking with you out a-walking, Than rattling after the hounds.

VI

"'Dear Fanny, there are moments When one feels that one's inspired, And... and...'

—"It does not seem to have been one of those moments with you just then," continued Freddy, "for the poem comes to an abrupt and untimely conclusion, unless three ~364~~ blots, and something that looks like a horse's head, may be a hieroglyphic mode of recording your inspirations, which I'm not learned enough to decipher."

"Eh! no; I broke down there," replied Lawless; "the muse deserted me, and went off in a canter for—where was it those young women used to hang out?—the 'Gradus ad' place, you know?"

"The tuneful Nine, whom you barbarously designate young women," returned Coleman, "are popularly supposed to have resided on Mount Parnassus, which acclivity I have always imagined of a triangular or sugar-loaf form, with Apollo seated on the apex or extreme point, his attention divided between preserving his equilibrium and keeping up his playing, which latter necessity he provided for by executing difficult passages on a golden (or, more probably, silver-gilt) lyre."

"Eh! nonsense," rejoined Lawless; "now, do be serious for five minutes, and go ahead with this letter, there's a good fellow; for, 'pon my word, I'm in a wretched state of mind—I am indeed. It's a fact, I'm nearly half a stone lighter than I was when I came here; I know I am, for there was an old fellow weighing a defunct pig down at the farm yesterday, and I made him let me get into the scales when he took piggy out. I tell you what, if I'm not married soon I shall make a job for the sexton; such incessant wear and tear of the sensibilities is enough to kill a prize-fighter in full-training, let alone a man that has been leading such a molly-coddle life as I have of late, lounging about drawing-rooms like a lapdog."

"Well, then, let us begin at once," said Freddy, seizing a pen; "now, what am I to say?"

"Eh! why, you don't expect me to know, do you?" exclaimed Lawless aghast; "I might just as well write it myself as have to tell you; no, no, you must help me, or else I'd better give the whole thing up at once."

"I'll help you, man, never fear," rejoined Freddy, "but you must give me something to work upon; why, it's all plain sailing enough; begin by describing your feelings."

"Feelings, eh?" said Lawless, rubbing his ear violently, as if to arouse his dormant faculties, "that's easier said than done. Well, here goes for a start: 'My dear Miss Fairlegh'".

"'My dear Miss Fairlegh,'" repeated Coleman, writing rapidly, "yes."

"Have you written that?" continued Lawless; "ar—let me think—'I have felt for some time past very ~365~~ peculiar sensations, and have become, in many respects, quite an altered man'." "'Altered man,'" murmured Freddy, still writing. "'I have given up hunting,'" resumed Lawless, "'which no longer possesses any interest in my eyes, though I think you'd have said, if you had been with us the last time we were out, that you never saw a prettier run in your life; the meet was at Chorley Bottom, and we got away in less than ten minutes after the hounds had been in cover, with as plucky a fox as ever puzzled a pack—'"

"Hold hard there!" interrupted Coleman, "I can't put all that in; nobody ever wrote an account of a fox-hunt in a love-letter—no, 'You've given up hunting, which no longer possesses any interest in your eyes'; now go on."

"My eyes," repeated Lawless reflectively; "yes: 'I am become indifferent to everything; I take no pleasure in the new dog-cart, King in Long Acre is building for me, with cane sides, the wheels larger, and the seat, if possible, still higher than the last, and which, if I am not very much out in my reckoning, will follow so light—'"

"I can't write all that trash about a dog-cart," interrupted Freddy crossly; "that's worse than the fox-hunting; stick to your feelings, man, can't you?"

"Ah! you little know the effect such feelings produce," sighed Lawless.

"That's the style," resumed Coleman with delight; "that will come in beautifully—'such feelings produce'; now, go on."

"'At night my slumbers are rendered distracting by visions of you—as—as——'"

"'The bride of another,'" suggested Coleman.

"Exactly," resumed Lawless; "or, 'sleep refusing to visit my——'"

"'Aching eye-balls,'" put in Freddy. "'I lie tossing restlessly from side to side, as if bitten by——'"

"'The gnawing tooth of Remorse;' that will do famously," added his scribe; "now tell her that she is the cause of it."

"'All these unpleasantnesses are owing to you,'" began Lawless.

"Oh! that won't do," said Coleman; "no—'These tender griefs' (that's the term, I think) 'are some of the effects, goods and chattels'—psha! I was thinking of drawing a will—'the effects produced upon me by——'"

~366~~ "'The wonderful way in which you stuck to your saddle when the mare bolted with you,'" rejoined Lawless enthusiastically; "what, won't that do either?"

"No, be quiet, I've got it all beautifully now, if you don't interrupt me: 'Your many perfections of mind and person—perfections which have led me to centre my ideas of happiness solely in the fond hope of one day calling you my own'."

"That's very pretty indeed," said Lawless; "go on."

"'Should I be fortunate enough,'" continued Coleman '"to succeed in winning your affection, it will be the study of my future life to prevent your every wish—'"

"Eh! what do you mean? not let her have her own way? Oh! that will never pay; why, the little I know of women, I'm sure that, if you want to come over them, you must flatter 'em up with the idea that you mean to give 'em their heads on all occasions—let 'em do just what they like. Tell a woman she should not go up the chimney, it's my belief you'd see her nose peep out of the top before ten minutes were over. Oh! that'll never do!"

"Nonsense," interrupted Freddy; "'prevent' means to forestall in that sense; however, I'll put it 'forestall,' if you like it better."

"I think it will be safest," replied Lawless, shaking his head solemnly.

"'In everything your will shall be law,'" continued Coleman, writing.

"Oh! I say, that's coming it rather strong, though," interposed Lawless, "query about that?"

"All right," rejoined Coleman, "it's always customary to say so in these cases, but it means nothing; as to the real question of mastery, that is a matter to be decided post-nuptially; you'll be enlightened on the subject before long in a series of midnight discourses, commonly known under the title of curtain-lectures."

"Pleasant, eh?" returned Lawless; "well, I bet two to one on the grey mare, for I never could stand being preached to, and shall consent to anything for the sake of a quiet life—so move on."

"'If this offer of my heart and hand should be favourably received by the loveliest of her sex,'" continued Coleman, "'a line, a word, a smile, a——'"

"'Wink,'" suggested Lawless.

"'Will be sufficient to acquaint me with my happiness.'"

"Tell-her to look sharp about sending an answer," exclaimed Lawless; "if she keeps me waiting long after ~367~~ that letter's sent, I shall go off pop, like a bottle of ginger-beer; I know I shall—string won't hold me, or wire either."

"'When once this letter is despatched, I shall enjoy no respite from the tortures of suspense till the answer arrives, which shall exalt to the highest pinnacle of happiness, or plunge into the lowest abysses of despair, one who lives but in the sunshine of your smile, and who now, with the liveliest affection, tempered by the most profound respect, ventures to sign himself, Your devotedly attached—'"

"'And love-lorn,'" interposed Lawless in a sharp, quick tone.

"Love-lorn!" repeated Coleman, looking up with an air of surprise; "sentimental and ridiculous in the extreme! I shall not write any such thing."

"I believe, Mr. Coleman, that letter is intended to express my feelings, and not yours?" questioned Lawless in a tone of stern investigation.

"Yes, of course it is," began Coleman.

"Then write as I desire, sir," continued Lawless authoritatively; "I ought to know my own feelings best, I imagine; I feel love-lorn, and 'love-lorn' it shall be."

"Oh! certainly," replied Coleman, slightly offended, "anything you please, 'Your devotedly attached and lovelorn admirer'; here, sign it yourself, 'George Lawless'."

"Bravo!" said Lawless, relapsing into his accustomed good humour the moment the knotty point of the insertion of "love-lorn" had been carried; "if that isn't first-rate, I'm a Dutchman; why, Freddy, boy, where did you learn it? how does it all come into your head?"

"Native talent," replied Coleman, "combined with a strong and lively appreciation of the sublime and beautiful, chiefly derived from my maternal grandmother, whose name was Burke."

"That wasn't the Burke who wrote a book about it, was it?" asked Lawless.

"Ah! no, not exactly," replied Coleman; "she would have been, I believe, had she been a man."

"Very likely," returned Lawless, whose attention was absorbed in folding, sealing and directing the important letter, "Miss Fairlegh". "Now, if she does but regard my suit favourably."

"You'll be suited with a wife," punned Coleman.

"But suppose she should say 'No,'" continued Lawless, musing.

"Why, then, you'll be non-suited, that's all," returned the incorrigible Freddy; and making a face at me, which (as I was to all appearance immersed fathoms deep in ~368~~ Blackstone) he thought I should not observe, he sauntered out of the room, humming the following scrap of some elegant ditty, with which he had become acquainted:—

"'If ever I marry a wife, I'll marry a publican's daughter, I 'll sit all day long in the bar, And drink nothing but brandy-and-water'".

Lawless having completed his arrangements to his satisfaction, hastened to follow Coleman's example, nodding to me as he left the room, and adding, "Good-bye, Fairlegh; read away, old boy, and when I see you again, I hope I shall have some good news for you".

Good news for me! The news that my sister would be pledged to spend her life as the companion, or, more properly speaking, the plaything, of a man who had so little delicacy of mind, so little self-respect, as to have allowed his feelings (for that he was attached to Fanny, as far as he was capable of forming a real attachment, I could not for a moment doubt) to be laid bare to form a subject for Freddy Coleman to sharpen his wit upon; and to reflect that I had in any way assisted in bringing this result about, had thrown thorn constantly together—oh! as I thought upon it, the inconceivable folly of which I had been guilty nearly maddened me. Somehow, I had never until this moment actually realised the idea of my sister's marrying him; even that night, when I had spoken to my mother on the subject, my motive had been more to prevent her from lecturing and worrying Fanny than anything else. But the real cause of my indifference was, that during the whole progress of the affair my thoughts and feelings had been so completely engrossed by, and centred in, my own position in regard to Clara Saville, that although present in body, my mind was in great measure absent. I had never given my attention to it; but had gone on in a dreamy kind of way, letting affairs take their own course, and saying and doing whatever appeared most consonant to the wishes of other people at the moment, until the discovery of Oaklands' unhappy attachment had fully aroused me, when, as it appeared, too late to remedy the misery which my carelessness and inattention had in a great measure contributed to bring about.

The only hope which now remained (and when I remembered the evident pleasure she took in his society, it appeared a very forlorn one) was that Fanny might, of her own accord, refuse Lawless. ~369~~ By this time the precious document produced by the joint exertions of Lawless and Coleman must have reached its destination; and it was with an anxiety little inferior to that of the principals themselves that I looked forward to the result, and awaited with impatience the verdict which was to decide whether joy should brighten, or sorrow shade, the future years of Harry Oaklands.



CHAPTER XLVI — TEARS AND SMILES

"Our doubts are traitors; And make us lose the good we oft might win, By fearing to attempt." —Measure for Measure.

"'Well, every one can master grief but he that has it.' 'Yet say I he's in love.' 'The greatest note of it is his melancholy.' 'Nay, but I know who loves him.'" —Much Ado About Nothing.

"Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of love, Accompany your hearts." —Midsummer Night's Dream.

READING law did not get on very well that day. De Lolme on the Constitution might have been a medical treatise, for aught I knew to the contrary; Blackstone a work on geology. After a prolonged struggle to compel my attention, from which I did not desist until I became suddenly aware that, for the last half-hour, I had been holding one of the above-named ornaments to the profession the wrong way upwards, I relinquished the matter as hopeless, and, pulling my hat over my brows, sallied forth, and turned my moody steps in the direction of the cottage. Feeling unwilling in my then humour to encounter any of its inmates, I walked round to the back of the house, and throwing open the window of a small room, which was dignified by the name of the study, and dedicated to my sole use and behoof, I leaped in, and closing the sash, flung myself into an easy-chair, where, again involuntarily resuming the same train of thought, I gave myself up a prey to unavailing regrets. On my way I had encountered Freddy Coleman going to shoot wild-fowl, and he had accosted me with the following agreeable remark: "Why, Frank, old boy, you look as black as a crow at a funeral; I can't think what ails you all to-day. I met Harry Oaklands just now, seeming as much down ~370~~ in the mouth as if the bank had failed; so I told him your sister was going to marry Lawless, just to cheer him up a bit, and show him the world was all alive and merry, when off he marched without saying a word, looking more grumpy than ever."

"Why did you tell him what was not true?" was my reply.

"Oh! for fun; besides, you know, it may be true, for anything we can tell," was the unsatisfactory rejoinder.

In order the better to enable the reader to understand what is to follow, I must make him acquainted with the exact locale of the den or study to which I have just introduced him. Let him imagine, then, a small but very pretty little drawing-room, opening into a conservatory of such minute dimensions, that it was, in point of fact, little more than a closet with glazed sides and a skylight; this, again, opened into the study, from which it was divided by a green baize curtain; consequently, it was very possible for any one to overhear in one room all that passed in the other, or even to hold a conversation with a person in the opposite apartment. Seeing, however, was out of the question, as the end of a high stand of flowers intervened—purposely so placed, to enable me to lie perdu in the event of any visitors calling to whom I might be unwilling to reveal myself. On the present occasion, the possibility of any one in the drawing-room seeing me was wholly precluded, by reason of the curtain already mentioned being partially drawn.

I had not remained long in thought when my reverie was disturbed by some one entering the outer room and closing the door. The peculiar rustle of a lady's dress informed me that the intruder was of the gentler sex; and the sound of the footstep, so light as to be scarcely audible, could proceed from no other inmate of the cottage but Fanny.

Even with the best intentions, one always feels a degree of shame in playing the eaves-dropper; a natural sense of honour seems to forbid us, unnoticed ourselves, to remark the actions of others; yet so anxious was I, if possible, to gain some clue to the state of my sister's affections, that I could not resist the temptation of slightly changing my position, so that, concealed by a fold of the curtain, and peeping between two of the tallest camellias, I could command a view of the drawing-room. My ears had not deceived me; on the sofa, up to which she had drawn a small writing-table, was seated Fanny; her elbow was supported by the table before her, and her head rested ~371~~ on one of her little white hands, which was hidden amid the luxuriant tresses of her sunny hair. Her countenance, which was paler than usual, bore traces of tears. After remaining in this attitude for a few moments, motionless as a statue, she raised her head, and throwing back her curls from her face, opened the writing-case and wrote a hurried note; but her powers of composition appearing to fail her before she reached the conclusion, she paused, and, with a deep sigh, drew from a fold in her dress a letter, which I instantly recognised as the remarkable document produced by the joint talents of Lawless and Coleman. As she perused this original manuscript, a smile, called forth by the singular nature of its contents, played for an instant over her expressive features, but was instantly succeeded by an expression of annoyance and regret.

At this moment a man's footstep sounded in the passage, and Fanny had scarcely time to conceal her letter ere the door was thrown open, and Harry Oaklands entered.

The change of light was so great on first coming into the room out of the open air, that, not until the servant had withdrawn, after saying, "You will find Mr. Fairlegh in the study, sir," was Harry able to perceive that, excepting himself, Fanny was the sole occupant of the apartment.

"I hope I am not disturbing you," he began, after an awkward pause, during which his cheek had flushed, and then again grown pale as marble. "The servant told me I should find Frank here alone, and that you and Mrs. Fairlegh were out walking."

"Mamma is gone to see the poor boy who broke his leg the other day; but I had a little headache, and she would not let me go with her." "And Frank?"

"Frank went out soon after breakfast, and has not yet returned; I think he said he was going to the Hall—he wanted to find some book in the library, I fancy—I wonder you did not meet him."

"I have not been at home since the morning; my father carried me off to look at a farm he thinks of purchasing; but, as Frank is out, I will not interrupt you longer; I dare say I shall meet him in my way back. Good—good-morning!"

So saying, he took up his hat, and turned abruptly to leave the room. Apparently, however, ere he reached the door, some thought came across him which induced him to relinquish this design, for he stood irresolutely for a ~372~~ moment, with the handle in his hand, and then returned, saying in a low voice, "No, I cannot do it!—Fanny," he continued, speaking rapidly, as if mistrusting his self-control, "I am going abroad to-morrow; we may not meet again for years, perhaps (for life and death are strangely intermingled) we may meet in this world no more. Since you were a child we have lived together like brother and sister and I cannot leave you without saying good-bye—without expressing a fervent wish that in the lot you have chosen for yourself you may meet with all the happiness you anticipate, and which you so well deserve."

"Going abroad?" repeated Fanny mechanically, as if stunned by this unexpected intelligence.

"Yes; I start for the Continent early to-morrow morning: you know I am always alarmingly hasty in my movements," he added, with a faint attempt at a smile.

"It must be on account of your health," exclaimed Fanny quickly. "Ah!" she continued, with a start, as a new and painful idea occurred to her, "the fearful leap you took to save me—the exertion was too much for you; I knew—I felt at the time it would be so; better, far better, had I perished in that dark river, than that you should have endangered your valuable life."

"Indeed, it is not so, Fanny," replied Oaklands kindly, and, taking her hand, he led her to the sofa, for she trembled so violently it was evident she could scarcely stand; "I am regaining strength daily, and Ellis will tell you that complete change of scene and air is the best thing for me."

"Is that really all?" inquired Fanny; "but why then go so suddenly? Think of your father; surely it will be a great shock to Sir John."

"I cannot stay here," replied Harry impetuously, "it would madden me." The look of surprise and alarm with which Fanny regarded him led him to perceive the error he had committed, and, fearful of betraying himself, he added quickly, "You must make allowance for the morbid fancies of an invalid, proverbially the most capricious of all mortals. Six weeks ago I was in quite as great a hurry to reach this place as I now am to get away from it—"

He paused, sighed deeply, and then, with a degree of self-control for which I had scarcely given him credit, added, in a cheerful tone, "But I will not thrust my gloomy imaginings upon you; nothing dark or disagreeable should be permitted to cloud the fair prospect which to-day has opened before you. You must allow me," he ~373~~ continued, in a calm voice, though the effort it cost him to preserve composure must have been extreme—"you must allow me the privilege of an old friend, and let me be the first to tell you how sincerely I hope that the rank and station which will one day be yours—rank which you are so well fitted to adorn—may bring you all the happiness you imagine."

"Happiness, rank and station! May I ask to what you refer, Mr. Oaklands?" replied Fanny, colouring crimson. "I may have been premature in my congratulations," replied he; "I would not distress or annoy you for the world; but under the circumstances—this being probably the only opportunity I may have of expressing the deep interest I must always feel in everything that relates to your happiness—I may surely be excused; I felt I could not leave you without telling you this."

"You are labouring under some extraordinary delusion, Mr. Oaklands," rejoined Fanny, turning away her face, and speaking very quickly; "pray let this subject be dropped."

"You trifle with me," replied Oaklands sternly, his self-control rapidly deserting him, "and you know not the depth of the feelings you are sporting with. Is it a delusion to believe that you are the affianced bride of George Lawless?"

As he spoke, Fanny turned her soft blue eyes upon him with an expression which must have pierced him to the very soul—it was not an expression of anger—it was not exactly one of sorrow; but it was a look in which wounded pride at his having for a moment believed such a thing possible, was blended with tender reproach for thus misunderstanding her. The former feeling, however, was alone distinguishable, as, drawing herself up with an air of quiet dignity, which gave a character of severity to her pretty little features of which I could scarcely have believed them capable, she replied, "Since Mr. Lawless has not had sufficient delicacy to preserve his own secret, it is useless for me to attempt to do so; therefore, as you are aware that he has done me the honour of offering me his hand, in justice to myself I now inform you that it is an honour which I have declined, and, with it, all chance of attaining that 'rank and station' on which you imagined I had placed my hopes of happiness. You will, perhaps, excuse me," she added, rising to leave the room; "these events have annoyed and agitated me much."

"Stay!" exclaimed Oaklands, springing up impetuously, "Fanny, for Heaven's sake, wait one moment! Am I ~374~~ dreaming? or did I hear you say that you had refused Lawless?"

"I have already told you that it is so," she replied: "pray let me pass; you are presuming on your privileges as an old friend."

"Bear with me for one moment," pleaded Oaklands, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion. "You have not refused him out of any mistaken notions of generosity arising from difference of station? In a word—for I must speak plainly, though at the risk of distressing you—do you love him?"

"Really—" began Fanny, again attempting to quit the room, and turning first red, then pale, as Oaklands still held his position between her and the door.

"Oh! pardon me," he continued in the same broken voice, "deem me presuming—mad—what you will; but as you hope for happiness here or hereafter, answer me this one question—Do you love him?"

"No, I do not," replied Fanny, completely subdued by the violence of his emotion.

"Thank God!" murmured Oaklands, and sinking into a chair, the strong man, overcome by this sudden revulsion of feeling, buried his face in his hands and wept like a child. There is no sight so affecting as that of manhood's tears. It seems natural for a woman's feelings to find vent in weeping; and though all our sympathies are enlisted in her behalf, we deem it an April shower, which we hope to see ere long give place to the sunshine of a smile; but tears are foreign to the sterner nature of man, and any emotion powerful enough to call them forth indicates a depth and intensity of feeling which, like the sirocco of the desert, carries all before it in its resistless fury. Fanny must have been more than woman if she could have remained an unmoved spectator of Harry Oaklands' agitation.

Apparently relinquishing her intention of quitting the room, she stood with her hands clasped, regarding him with a look of mixed interest and alarm; but as his broad chest rose and fell, convulsed by the sobs he in vain endeavoured to repress, she drew nearer to him, exclaiming:—

"Mr. Oaklands, are you ill? Shall I ring for a glass of water?" Then, finding he was unable to answer her, completely overcome, she continued, "Oh! what is all this? what have I said? what have I done? Harry, speak to me; tell me, are you angry with me?" and laying her hand gently on his shoulder, she gazed up in his face with a look of the most piteous entreaty.

~375~~ Her light touch seemed to recall him to himself, and uncovering his face, he made a strong effort to regain composure, which, after a moment or two, appeared attended with success; and taking her hand between his own, he said, with a faint smile:—

"I have frightened you—have I not? The last time I shed tears was at my mother's funeral, and I had never thought to weep again; but what pain of body and anguish of mind were powerless to accomplish, joy has effected in an instant. This must all seem very strange to you, dear Fanny; even I myself am surprised at the depth and vehemence of my own feelings; but if you knew the agony of mind I have undergone since the night of that hateful charade—Fanny, did it never occur to you that I loved you with a love different to that of a brother?"

As she made no reply, merely turning away her head, while a blush, faint as the earliest glance of young-eyed Morning, mantled on her cheek, he continued, "Yes, Fanny, I have known and loved you from childhood, and your affection has become, unconsciously as it were, one of the strongest ties that render life dear to me; still I frankly confess, that till the idea of your loving another occurred to me, I was blind to the nature of my own affection. To be with you, to see and talk to you daily, to cultivate your talents, to lead you to admire the beauties that 1 admire, to take interest in the pursuits which interested me, was happiness enough—I wished for nothing more. Then came that business of the duel, and the affectionate kindness with which you forestalled my every wish; the delicate tenderness and ready tact which enabled you to be more than a daughter—a guardian angel—to my father, in the days of his heavy sorrow—sorrow which my ungoverned passions had brought upon his grey head—all these things endeared you to me still more. Next followed a period of estrangement and separation, during which, as I now see, an undefined craving for your society preyed upon my spirits, and, as I verily believe, retarded my recovery. Hence, the moment I felt the slightest symptoms of returning health, my determination to revisit Heathfield. When we again met, I fancied you were ill and out of spirits."

"It was no fancy," murmured Fanny in a low voice, as though thinking aloud.

"Indeed!" questioned Harry; "and will you not tell me the cause?"

"Presently; I did not mean to speak—to interrupt you."

~376~~ "My sole wish and occupation," he continued, "was to endeavour to interest and amuse you, and to restore your cheerfulness, which I believed the anxiety and fatigue occasioned by my illness to have banished; and I nattered myself I was in some degree succeeding, when Lawless's arrival and his openly professed admiration of you seemed to change the whole current of my thoughts—nay, my very nature itself. I became sullen and morose; and the feeling of dislike with which I beheld Lawless's attentions to you gradually strengthened to a deep and settled hatred; it was only by exercising the most unceasing watchfulness and self-control that I refrained from quarrelling with him; but so engrossed was I by the painful interest I felt in all that was passing around me, that I never gave myself time to analyse my feelings; and it was not until the night of the charade that I became fully aware of their true character; it was not till then I learned that happiness could not exist for me unless you shared it. Conceive my wretchedness when, at the very moment in which this conviction first dawned upon me, I saw from Lawless's manner that in his attentions to you he was evidently in earnest, and that, as far as I could judge, you were disposed to receive those attentions favourably. My mind was instantly made up; I only waited till events should prove whether my suspicions were correct, and in case of their turning out so, feeling utterly unfit to endure the sight of Lawless's happiness, determined immediately to start for the Continent. Prank, who taxing me with my wretched looks, elicited from me an avowal of the truth, told me Lawless was about to make you an offer; Coleman (probably in jest, but it chimed in too well with my own fears for me to dream of doubting him) that it had been accepted. The rest you know. And now, Fanny," he continued, his voice again trembling from the excess of his anxiety, "if you feel that you can never bring yourself to look upon me in any other light than as a brother, I will adhere to my determination of leaving England, and trust to time to reconcile me to my fate; but if, by waiting months, nay years, I may hope one day to call you my own, gladly will I do so—gladly will I submit to any conditions you may impose. My happiness is in your hands. Tell me, dear Fanny, must I go abroad to-morrow?"

And what do you suppose she told him, reader? That he must go? Miss Martineau would have highly approved of her doing so; so would the late Poor-law Commissioners, and so would many a modern Draco, who, with 377~ the life-blood that should have gone to warm his own stony heart, scribbles a code to crush the kindly affections and genial home-sympathies of his fellow-men. But Fanny was no female philosopher; she was only a pure, true-hearted, trustful, loving woman; and so she gave him to understand that he need not set out on his travels, thereby losing a fine opportunity of "regenerating society," and vindicating the dignity of her sex. And this was not all she told him either; for, having by his generous frankness won her confidence, he succeeded in gaining from her the secret of her heart—a secret which, an hour before, she would have braved death in its most horrible form rather than reveal. And then her happy lover learned how her affection for him, springing up in the pleasant days of childhood, had grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength; until it became a deep and all-absorbing passion—the great reality of her spirit-life; for love such as hers, outstripping the bounds of time, links itself even with our hopes beyond the grave;—how, when he lay stretched upon the bed of suffering, oscillating between life and death, the bitter anguish that the thought of separation occasioned her, enlightened her as to the true nature of her feelings; how, as his recovery progressed, to watch over him, and minister to his comfort, was happiness beyond expression to her;—how, when he left the cottage, everything seemed changed and dark, and a gulf appeared to have interposed between them, which she deemed impassable;—how, in the struggle to conceal, and, if possible, conquer her attachment, she studiously avoided all intercourse with him, and how the struggle ended in the loss of health and spirits;—how, during his absence, she felt it a duty still to bear up against these feelings of despair, and to endure her sad lot with patient resignation, and succeeded in some degree, till his return once again rendered all her efforts fruitless;—and how she then avoided him more studiously than before, although she saw, and sorrowed over the evident pain her altered manner caused him;—how, always fearing lest he should question her as to her changed behaviour, and by word or sign she should betray the deep interest she felt in him, she had gladly availed herself of Lawless's attentions as a means of avoiding Harry's kind attempts to amuse and occupy her—attempts which, at the very moment she was wounding him by rejecting them, only rendered him yet dearer to her;—and how she had gone on, thinking only of Harry and herself, until Lawless's offer had brought her unhappiness to a climax, by adding self-reproach to ~378~~ her other sources of unhappiness. All this, and much more, did she relate; for if her coral lips did not frame every syllable, her tell-tale blushes filled up the gaps most eloquently.