~191~~Oaklands then turned to the girl, whom I had raised from the ground and placed on a chair, and addressing her in a stern impressive manner, said: "I will now resume what I was saying to you when yonder beaten hound dared to lay hands upon me. For the last time the choice is offered to you—either return home, and endeavour, by devoting yourself to your broken-hearted old father, to atone as best you may for the misery you have caused him; or, by remaining here, commence a life of infamy which will end sooner or later in a miserable death." He paused; then, as she made no reply, but sat with her face buried in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break, he continued, "You tell me, the vile tempter who has lured you from your duty promised to meet you here to-day, and, bringing a clergyman with him, to marry you privately; now if this is the truth——"

"It is, it is," she faltered.

"If so," resumed Oaklands, "a knowledge of the real facts of the case may yet save you. This scoundrel who has promised to marry you, and who belongs to a rank immeasurably above your own, is already notorious for what are termed, by such as himself, affairs of gallantry; while the wretched impostor whom he has brought with him to act the part of clergyman is the marker at a low billiard-table, and no more a clergyman than I am."

"Is this really so?" exclaimed the girl, raising her eyes, which were swollen and red with weeping, to Wilford's face; "would you have deceived me thus, Stephen—you, whom I have trusted so implicitly?"

Wilford, who, since the severe discipline he had undergone, had remained seated, with his head resting on his hand, as if in pain, apparently unconscious of what was going on, glared at her ferociously with his flashing eyes, but made no reply. The girl waited for a minute; but, obtaining no answer, turned away with a half shudder, murmuring, "Deceived, deceived!" Then addressing Oaklands, she said, "I will go home to my father, sir; and if he will not forgive me, I can but lie down and die at his feet—better so than live on, to trust, and be deceived again".

"You have decided rightly, and will not repent it," remarked Oaklands in a milder tone of voice; then, turning to the blacksmith (who had made his appearance, accompanied by his wife, the moment the affray had ended), he continued: "you must procure some conveyance immediately to take this young person back to Cambridge, and your wife must accompany her". ~192~~Observing that the man hesitated, and cast an inquiring glance towards Wilford, he added sternly, "If you would not be compelled to answer for the share you have taken in this rascally business before the proper authorities, do as I have told you without loss of time".

The man having again failed in an attempt to attract Wilford's attention, asked in a surly tone, "Whether a spring-cart would do?" and, being answered in the affirmative, left the room.

Lizzie Maurice withdrew to prepare for her return home, the woman accompanied her; Oaklands strode to the window, and remained watching the operation of harnessing the horse to the tax-cart. Wilford still retained the same attitude, and neither spoke nor moved. Wentworth having glanced towards him once or twice, as if to divine his wishes, receiving no sign, lit a cigar, and leaning His back against the chimney-piece began to smoke furiously, whilst I devoted myself to the pages of an old sporting magazine. Thus passed five minutes, which seemed as if they would never come to an end, at the expiration of which time the tax-cart, driven by a stout country lad, drew up to the door, and the two women making their appearance at the same moment, Oaklands turned to leave the room. As he did so Wilford, for the first time, raised his head, thereby disclosing a countenance which, pale as death, was characterised by an expression of such intense malignity as one might conceive would be discernible in that of a corpse reanimated by some evil spirit. After regarding Oaklands fixedly for a moment, he said, in a low, grating tone of voice, "You have foiled me once and again—when next we meet, it wilt, be my turn!" Oaklands merely smiled contemptuously, and quitted the house.

Having mounted our horses, we ordered the lad who drove the spring-cart to proceed at his fastest pace, while we followed at a sufficient distance to keep it in sight, so as to guard against any attempt which might be made by Wilford to repossess himself of his victim, without positively identifying ourselves with the party it contained. We rode in silence for the first two or three miles; at length I could refrain no longer, and, half uttering my thoughts aloud, half addressing my companion, I exclaimed, "Oh, Harry, Harry, what is all this that you have done?"

"Done!" replied Oaklands, with a heightened colour and flashing eyes, "rescued an innocent girl from a villain who would have betrayed her, and punished the scoundrel ~193~~about half so severely as he deserved; but that was my misfortune, not my fault. Had not the whip broken——"

"You know that is not what I mean," returned I; "but this man will challenge you, will—you are aware of his accursed skill—will murder you. Oh! that fiendish look of his as you left the room—it will haunt me to my dying day."

"And would you have had me leave the poor girl to her fate from a coward fear of personal danger? You are strangely altered since you defied a room full of men last night rather than allow Clara Saville's name to be uttered by their profane lips; or, which is nearer the truth," he continued with a kind smile, "your affection for me blinds you."

"Not so, Harry," replied I; "but it is the recollection of my own feelings, when, while waiting for Lawless's report last night, I believed I should be forced to meet this Wilford—it is the misery, the self-reproach, the bitter penitence of that moment, when, for the first time, I was able to reflect on the fearful situation in which by my own rashness I had placed myself, a situation in which crime seemed forced upon me, and it appeared impossible to act rightly—it is the remembrance of all these things which causes me to lament that you, my more than brother, should have involved yourself in similar difficulties."

"But, Frank," he began—then, interrupting himself, he seized my hand, and pressing it warmly between his own, exclaimed, "My dear old fellow, forgive me if I have spoken unkindly to you; but this man has maddened me, I believe". He paused, and then continued in a calmer voice, "Let me tell you how it occurred, and you will see I could scarcely have acted otherwise than I have done. You know I went into the public-house to brush off the mud after my tumble. The instant my step sounded in the passage, a girl tripped lightly down the stairs and ran towards me, exclaiming joyfully, 'You have come at last, then!' On finding that it was not the person she expected she stopped in alarm, and I perceived to my astonishment that it was Lizzie Maurice. She recognised me at the same moment, and apparently a new idea struck her, for she again approached me, saying, 'Mr. Oaklands, tell me, sir, for heaven's sake, has anything happened to Wilford?' Then, with woman's tact, perceiving her mistake, she blushed deeply, adding in a timid voice, 'I fancied you might have been riding with that gentleman; and seeing you alone, I was afraid some accident might ~194~~have befallen your companion'. All this convinced me that my suspicions had not been misplaced; and the thought occurred to me that possibly it might not yet be too late to endeavour to restore her to her father, while the recollection of Archer's account of the old man's distress determined me to make the attempt.

"Taking her, therefore, by the hand, I led her into the parlour, and, begging her to listen to me for five minutes, told her I was aware of her elopement, and entreated her to return home again, adding that her father was brokenhearted at her loss. She shed tears when I mentioned the old man's grief, but positively refused to return home.

"Finding persuasion to be of no avail, I thought I would appeal to her fears: so I informed her that I was aware of the name of the villain who had enticed her away; that I would seek him out and expose him, and that I should instantly acquaint her father with her place of refuge, and advise him to come provided with proper powers to reclaim her. This produced more effect, and, after some hesitation, she told me proudly that I had done her foul wrong by my doubts; that Mr. Wilford meant to make her his lawful wife; but that, in order to prevent his great relations hearing of it till he could break it to them cautiously, it was advisable to keep the affair quiet—(the old story, in short, private marriage and all the rest of it)—a friend of Wilford's, therefore, to avoid exciting suspicion, had kindly driven her over there the night before, and she was now expecting her lover to come, and bring a clergyman with him, who would marry them by licence on the spot; when she heard my step she thought they had arrived. The air of truth with which she told her tale carried conviction with it.

"I was about to represent to her the improbability of Wilford's intentions being as honourable as she fondly imagined them, when a gig drove up to the door, containing Wentworth and a fellow whom I recognised as one of the billiard-markers in —— Street, dressed in a seedy suit of black for the occasion; immediately afterwards Wilford arrived on horseback. The whole thing was now perfectly clear. Wilford, having made the girl believe he intended to marry her, persuaded Wentworth, who is completely his tool, to carry her off for him; after which he went to Lawless's wine-party, in order to show himself and thereby avert suspicion. He then bribed the billiard-marker to play parson, got Wentworth to bring him, and going out as if merely for a ride had joined them here. I was considering what would be the best ~195~~course to pursue, and was just coming out to consult you, when the door was flung open, and Wilford and Wentworth entered hastily. The moment Wilford's eyes fell upon me he started as if a serpent had stung him, and his brow became black as night.

"Advancing a step or two towards me, he inquired, in a voice hoarse with rage, what I was doing there. I replied, 'Endeavouring to prevent some of his evil designs from succeeding'. He tried to answer me, but his utterance was literally choked by passion; and turning away, he strode up and down the room gnashing and grinding his teeth like a maniac. Having in some degree recovered his self-control, he again approached me, drew himself up to his full height, and, pointing to the door, desired me to leave the room.

"I replied I should not do so until I had given the young lady a piece of information respecting the character of one of the party—and I pointed to the billiard-marker, who had not yet alighted—I should then, I added, learn from her own lips whether she still wished to remain there, or would take my advice and return to her father.

"Again Wilford ground his teeth with rage, and desired me, in a voice of thunder, to 'leave the room instantly '; to which I replied flatly that I would not.

"He then made a sign to Wentworth, and they both approached me, with the intention of forcing me out. Fearing that their combined efforts might overpower me (for Wentworth, though short, is a broad-shouldered, strong man, and Wilford's muscles are like iron), I avoided their grasp by stepping backwards, and, hitting out with my right hand as I did so, caught Wentworth full on the nose, tapping his claret for him, as the pugilists call it, and sending him down like a shot. At the same moment Wilford sprang upon me with a bound like a tiger, and seizing me by the throat a short but severe struggle took place between us. I was too strong for him, however; and finding this, he would gladly have ceased hostilities and quitted me, kindly postponing my annihilation till some future day, when it could be more conveniently accomplished by means of a pistol-bullet. But, as you may imagine, my blood was pretty well up by this time, and I determined he should not get off quite so easily. Seizing, therefore, my whip in one hand, I detained him without much trouble with the other—his strength being thoroughly exhausted by his previous exertions—and administered such a thrashing as will keep him out of mischief for a week to come, at ~196~~all events. It was while this was going on that you made your appearance, I think; so now you are au fait to the whole affair—and pray, what else could I possibly have done under the circumstances?"

"It is not easy to say," replied I. "I think the horse-whipping might have been omitted, though I suppose the result would have been the same at all events, and it certainly was a great temptation. The brightest side of the business is your having saved the poor girl, who I really believe is more to be pitied than blamed, having only followed the dictates of her woman's nature, by allowing her feelings to overrule her judgment."

"You have used exactly the right expression there," said Oaklands; "in such cases as the present, it is not that the woman is weak enough to be gulled by every plausible tale which may be told her, but that she has such entire confidence, such pure and child-like faith in the man she loves, that she will believe anything rather than admit the possibility of his deceiving her."

"The deeper villain he, who can betray such simple trust," replied I.

"Villain, indeed!" returned Oaklands. "I would not have been in Wilford's place, to have witnessed that girl's look when the conviction of his baseness was forced upon her, for worlds; it was not a look of anger nor of sorrow, but it seemed as if the blow had literally crushed her heart within her—-as if the brightness of her young spirit had fled for ever, and that to live would only be to prolong the duration of her misery. No; I would rather have faced death in its most horrible form, than have met that look, knowing that my own treachery had called it forth."

We rode for some little distance in silence. At length I inquired how he meant to arrange for Lizzie Maurice's return to her home, as it would not do for us, unless he wished the part we had taken in the affair to be known all over Cambridge, to escort her to her father's door in the order of procession in which we were then advancing.

"No, I was just thinking of that," replied Oaklands. "It appears to me that the quietest way of managing the affair will be to pay the boy for the horse and cart at once, telling him to set Lizzie Maurice down within a short distance of her father's shop, and then to drive back with the woman. Lizzie can proceed on foot, and will probably at this time of the evening (it was nearly seven o'clock) be able to enter the house without attracting attention: we will, however, keep her in sight, so as to be at hand to render her assistance should she require ~197~~it. I do not myself feel the slightest doubt that her father will believe her tale, and treat her kindly. I shall, however, leave her my direction, and should she require my testimony in support of her veracity, or should the old man be unwilling to receive her, she must inform me of it, and I will call upon him, and try to bring him to reason."

"That will not be necessary, depend upon it," returned I; "he will only be too glad to recover her."

"So I think," replied Oaklands.

"What course shall you take with regard to Wilford?" inquired I.

"I shall never mention the affair to any one, if he does not," answered Oaklands; "neither shall I take any step whatever in the matter. I am perfectly satisfied, with the position in which I stand at present, and if he should not enjoy an equal share of contentment, it is for him to declare it—the next move must be his, and it will be time enough for me to decide how to act when we see what it may be. I shall now tell Lizzie Maurice of my plan for her, and inform her that as long as I hear she is living quietly at home, and leading a respectable life, my lips will be sealed with regard to the occurrences of to-day." So saying, he put his horse into a canter, and riding up to the side of the cart, conversed with the girl in a low tone of voice for several minutes; then, drawing out his purse, handed some money to the driver, and rejoined me. "She is extremely grateful to me for my promise of silence," he commenced; "seems very penitent for her fault, and declares that this is a lesson she shall never forget. She agrees to my plan of walking, and tells me there is a side-door to the house, by which she can enter unobserved. She promises to confess everything to her father, and hopes to obtain his forgiveness; and appears altogether in 'a very proper frame of mind,' as the good books say."

"Long may she remain so," returned I; "and now I am happy to say there are some of the towers of Cambridge visible, for, like you, I am becoming fearfully hungry."

"And for the first time during the last twenty-four hours I am actually beginning to feel as tired as a dog," rejoined Harry, shrugging his shoulders with an air of intense satisfaction.~198~~



CHAPTER XXV — THE CHALLENGE

"Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting. I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall, Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall."

"More matter for a May morning."

"Here's the challenge, read it."

"If this letter move him not, his legs cannot."

"Ominous! he comes to kill my heart." —Shakspeare.

OLD MAURICE, the pastry-cook, had welcomed his daughter gladly, as one returned from the grave, and had learned from her own lips, with mingled tears of joy and gratitude, how, thanks to noble Harry Oaklands, she had escaped unscathed from the perils and temptations to which she had been exposed; many days had elapsed, the Long Vacation had commenced, and the ancient town of Cambridge, no longer animated by the countless throngs of gownsmen, frowned in its unaccustomed solitude, like some City of the Dead, and still no hostile message came from Wilford. Various reports were circulated concerning the reappearance of Lizzie Maurice; but none of them bore the faintest resemblance to the truth, and to no one had the possibility of Oaklands' interference in the matter occurred, save, as it afterwards appeared, to Charles Archer.

For above a week Wilford was confined to his room, seeing only Wentworth; and it was given out that he had met with a severe fall from his horse, and was ordered to keep perfectly quiet. At the expiration of that period he quitted Cambridge suddenly, leaving no clue to his whereabouts. This strange conduct scarcely excited any surprise amongst the set he moved in, as it was usually his habit to shroud all his proceedings under a veil of secrecy, assumed, as some imagined, for the purpose of enhancing the mysterious and unaccountable influence he delighted to exercise over the minds of men.

Oaklands remained a few days at Cambridge after Wilford's departure, as he said, to pack up, but, as I felt certain, to prevent the possibility of Wilford's imagining that he was anxious in any way to avoid him. Finding at length that his rooms were dismantled, and that he would not in all probability return till the end of the Long Vacation, Harry ceased to trouble his head any further about the matter, and we set off for Heathfield, accompanied by Archer, whom Harry had invited to pay him a visit.

We found all well at our respective homes; my mother appeared much stronger, and was actually growing quite stout, for her; and Fanny looked so pretty, that I was not surprised at the very particular attentions paid her from the first moment of his introduction by the volatile Archer (who, by the way, was a regular male flirt), attentions which I was pleased to perceive she appreciated exactly at their proper value. We soon fell into our old habits again, Oaklands and Archer setting out after breakfast for a stroll, or on a fishing expedition, which usually ended in Harry's coming to an anchor under some spreading oak or beech, where he remained, "doing a bit of the dolce," as Archer called it, till luncheon time; whilst I, who could not afford to be idle, read hard till about three o'clock, and then joined in whatever amusement was the order of the day.

"Frank, may I come in?" exclaimed Fanny's silvery voice outside my study door, one morning during my working hours when I had been at home about a fortnight.

"To be sure you may, you little torment," replied I; "are you coming to learn mathematics, or to teach me crochet? for I see you are armed with that vicious little hook with which you delight to torture the wool of innocent lambs into strange shapes, for the purpose of providing your friends with innumerable small anomalous absurdities, which they had much rather be without."

"No such thing, Mr. Impudence, I never make any article which is not particularly useful as well as ornamental. But, Frank, dear," she continued, "I should not have interrupted you, only I wanted to tell you something—it may be nothing to signify, and yet I cannot help feeling alarmed about it."

"What is it, darling?" said I, putting my arm round her taper little waist, and drawing her towards me.

"Why, Mr. Oaklands has been here this morning; he came to bring mamma a message from Sir John, inviting us all to dine with him to-morrow."

"Nothing very alarming so far," observed I; "go on."

"Mamma said we should be extremely happy to do so, and quitted the room to find a recipe she had promised to the housekeeper at the Hall."

~200~~"And you were left alone with Harry—that was alarming certainly," said I.

"Nonsense," returned Fanny, while a very becoming blush glowed on her cheek; "how you do interrupt me! Mr. Oaklands had kindly offered to explain a difficult passage in Dante for me, and I was standing on a chair to get down the book—"

"Which he could have reached by merely stretching out his arm, I daresay, only he was too idle," interposed I.

"Indeed he could not," replied Fanny quickly, "for he was sitting in the low easy-chair, and trying to fasten mamma's spectacles on Donald's nose." (Donald being a favourite Scotch terrier belonging to Harry, and a great character in his way.) "Well, I had just found the book," she continued, "and we were going to begin when a note was given to Mr. Oaklands, which had been brought by a groom from the Hall, with a message that the gentleman who had left it was waiting at the inn in the village for an answer. Mr. Oaklands began to read it in his usual quiet way, but no sooner had he thrown his eye over the first few lines than his cheeks flushed, his brow grew dark, and his face assumed that fearfully stern expression which I have heard you describe, but had never before seen myself. As soon as he had finished reading it he crushed the paper in his hand, and sprung up, saying hurriedly, 'Is Frank———?' He then took two or three steps towards the door, and I thought he was coming to consult you. Suddenly, however, some new idea seemed to cross his mind, and, stopping abruptly, he strode towards the window, where he remained for a few moments, apparently buried in thought. At length he muttered, 'Yes, that will be better, better in all respects'; and turning on his heel, he was about to quit the room, leaving his hat on the table, when I ventured to hand it to him, saying, 'You are going without your hat, Mr. Oaklands'. He started at the sound of my voice, and seeming for the first time to recollect that I was in the room, he took the hat from me, begging pardon for his inattention, and adding, 'You must allow me to postpone our Italian lesson till——till to-morrow, shall we say? I find there is a gentleman waiting to see me.' He paused as if he wished to say more, but scarcely knew how to express himself. 'You saw,' he continued, 'that is—you may have observed that—that in fact there was something in that note which annoyed me—you need not say anything about it to Mrs. Fairlegh; she is rather given to alarming herself unnecessarily, I fancy,' he added ~201~~with a faint smile; 'tell Frank I shall not be at home till dinner time, but that I shall see him in the evening.' He then shook my hand warmly, and, holding it for a moment in his own, fixed his eyes on my face with a strange, half-melancholy expression that frightened me, and once more saying 'good-bye,' he pressed his hat over his brows, and bounding across the lawn, was out of sight in an instant. His manner was so very odd, so unlike what it generally is. Dear Frank, what is the meaning of all this? I am sure there is something going to happen, something—"

"You silly child," replied I, affecting a careless composure I was far from feeling, "how you frighten yourself about nothing. Harry has probably received a threatening letter from a Cambridge dun, and your lively imagination magnifies it into a—(challenge, I was going to add, but I substituted)—into something dreadful."

"Is that what you really think?" questioned Fanny, fixing her large blue eyes upon my face inquiringly.

I am the worst hand in the world at playing the hypocrite, and with ready tact she perceived at once that I was attempting to deceive her.

"Frank," she resumed, "you have seen but little of me since we were children together, and deem, possibly, that—I am a weak, silly girl, unfit to be trusted with evil tidings; but indeed, dear brother, you do me injustice; the sorrows we have gone through" (and her eyes filled with tears as she spoke), "the necessity for exertion in order to save mamma as much as possible, have given me more strength of character and firmness of purpose than girls of my age in general possess; tell me the truth, and fear not that power will be given me to bear it, be it what it may; but, if I think you are trying to hide it from me—and do not hope to deceive me; your face proves that you are as much alarmed at what you have heard as I am myself, and probably with far better reason—I shall be unable to forget it, and it will make me miserable."

"Well then," replied I, "thus far I will trust you. I do fear, from what you have told me, that Oaklands has received some evil tidings relative to a disagreeable affair in which he was engaged at Cambridge, the results of which are not fully known at present, and which, I am afraid, may yet occasion him much care and anxiety."

"And I had fancied him so light-hearted and happy," said Fanny thoughtfully; "and is this all I am to know about it then?"

"All that I feel myself at liberty to tell at present," ~202~~replied I; "recollect, darling, it is my friend's secret, not my own, or you should hear everything."

"Then you will tell me all your secrets if I ask you?" inquired Fanny archly.

"Whom should I trust or confide in, if not my own dear little sister?" said I, stroking her golden locks caressingly. "And now," continued I, rising, "I will go and see whether I can do any good in this affair; but when Master Harry is in one of his impetuous moods he gets quite beyond my management."

"Oh! but you can influence him," exclaimed Fanny, her bright eyes sparkling with animation; "you can calm his impetuosity with your own quiet good sense and clear judgment—you can appeal to his high and generous nature—you can tell him how dear he is to you, how you love him with more than a brother's love: you can and will do all this—will you not, dear Frank?"

"Of course I shall do everything that I am able, my dear child," replied I, somewhat astonished at this sudden outburst; "and now go, and be quiet, this business seems rather to have excited you. If my mother asks for me, tell her I am gone up to the Hall."

"What warm-hearted creatures women are!" thought I, as I ran, rather than walked, through the park; "that little sister of mine, now—no sooner does she hear that my friend has got into a scrape, of the very nature of which she is ignorant (a pretty fuss she would be in if she were aware that it was a duel, of which I am afraid), than she becomes quite excited, and implores me, as if she were pleading for her life, to use my influence with Harry to prevent his doing—something, she has not the most remote notion what. I wish she did not act quite so much from impulse. It's lucky she has got a brother to take care of her; though it does not become me to find fault with her, for it all proceeds from her affection for me; she knows how wretched I should be if anything were to go wrong with Harry,"—and then I fell into a train of thought as to what it could be which had so suddenly excited him: something connected with Wilford, no doubt; but what?—my fears pointed to a challenge, and my blood ran cold at the thought. He must accept it; neither my influence, were it increased a hundredfold, nor that of any one else, could make him apologise; besides, it is not very easy to imagine a satisfactory apology for horse-whipping a man till he cannot stand. And what course likely to be of any use could I take? On one point I was resolved—nothing ~203~~should induce me to become his second. What would be my feelings in case of a fatal result were I to reflect that I had made all the arrangements for the murder of the friend I loved best in the world—that I had actually stationed him opposite the never-failing pistol of his most bitter enemy, and placed in his hand a deadly weapon wherewith to attempt the life of a fellow-creature, when the next moment he might be called upon to answer before the Judge of all mankind for the deeds which he had done in the flesh? No! I could not be his second. As my meditations reached this point, I overtook the groom who had brought the eventful note, and who was leisurely proceeding on foot towards the Hall with that peculiar gait observable in men who spend much of their time on horseback, which consists of a compromise between walking and riding, and is strongly suggestive of their inability to realise the fact that they have not at all times and seasons a perpetual horse between their legs.

"Have you seen Mr. Oaklands, Harris?" inquired I, as the man touched his hat respectfully.

"Yes, sir, I may say I've seen him, and that's all," was the reply. "I brought him a note to the cottage, and was a waiting for orders, when he came tearing out, ordered me to get off, sprang into my saddle, and without stopping for me to let down the stirrups, drove his heels into 'Tom Trot'—that's the new grey horse, sir, if you please—and was out of sight like old boots."

Not having time to institute an inquiry into the amount of velocity with which the ancient articles referred to by Mr. Harris were accustomed to vanish, I asked if he knew who brought the note.

"A groom in a dark, claret-coloured livery, mounted on a splendid coal-black mare, nearly thorough-bred, but with more bone and substance about her than you generally see in them sort, and as clean on her pins as an unbroke colt. Sir John ain't got such a horse in his stables, nor Mr. Harry neither," was the reply.

This was conclusive evidence; the livery and the mare were alike Wilford's.

Leaving the groom to conjecture what he pleased, I hurried on, and, reaching the Hall, inquired of the old butler whether Harry was at home.

"No, sir," was the reply, "they ain't any of them at home. Mr. Harry came home a horseback about a quarter of an hour ago, and called Mr. Archer into his own room, and they had a confab, and then Mr. Archer went out a ~204~~riding on the same horse Mr. Harry came back upon, and would not take any o' the grooms with him—and afore that Sir John had ordered the phaeton, and Mr. Henry being come home he asked him to go with him; so you see, Mr. Fairlegh, they're none of 'em at home, sir."

"I'll go into the library and write a note, Edmonds," said I, as a new idea entered my head. "You know Sir John is kind enough to let me order a horse whenever I require one—will you tell Harris to have one saddled for me in ten minutes' time?"

"Certainly, Mr. Fairlegh; we all of us have Sir John's orders to attend to you, sir, the same as to Mr. Henry, and you're a young gent as it's a pleasure to serve too, if you'll excuse me taking the liberty of telling you so," replied the good old man, as he showed me into the library.

The idea which had come into my head (and it was more for the sake of doing something that I determined on it, than from any great hope I entertained of its proving of much avail) was to ride over to Hillingford, and consult Freddy Coleman on the subject. Perhaps his clear head and quick wit might enable him to devise some scheme by which, without betraying Harry's confidence, or bringing the slightest imputation on his honour, this duel might be prevented. What else could I do? It was quite clear to me that the note Harry had received was a challenge from Wilford, and that the gentleman waiting at the inn was some one whom he had prevailed upon to act as his second, probably Wentworth. Harry's first impulse had evidently been to come to me, and ask me to be his second; but, doubtless, guessing the distaste I should have to the office, and reflecting on the difficulties in which, if anything serious were to ensue, I might be involved, he had determined on asking Archer instead. Archer, by instantly setting off on horseback alone, had clearly agreed to his request, and was gone to make the necessary arrangements; and Harry had gladly accompanied Sir John, in order to be out of the way, and so avoid my questions and any attempts I might have made to induce him to alter his purpose. Were I to inform Sir John on his return, it would be an unpardonable breach of confidence towards Harry; were I to give notice to the authorities, so as to enable them to take measures for preventing the duel, it would always be said by Wilford that I did so with Harry's connivance, because he was afraid to meet him: thus my hands were tied in every way, and, as I said before, I could think of nothing better than to ride over and consult Coleman, whose powers of ~205~~getting out of a scrape I had seen pretty well tested in the affair of the bell-ringing. I therefore scrawled a hasty note to my mother, telling her that I was going to take a long ride, and she had better not wait dinner for me; and leaving a message for Oaklands with the servant who announced the horse, that I should see him in the evening, flung myself into the saddle, rode quietly till I was out of sight of the house, and then started at a gallop for Hillingford. Unwilling to meet any of the Coleman family, I left my horse at the inn, and, pulling my hat over my brows, to avoid, if possible, being recognised by their servant, rang the bell, and desired him to tell Mr. Frederic that a gentleman wanted to speak with him on particular business.



CHAPTER XXVI — COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE

"If you think your mystery in stratagem can bring this instru- ment of honour again into his native quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprise, and go on; I will grace the attempt for a worthy exploit if you speed well in it."

"Now I see the bottom of your purpose."

"You see it lawful then."

"I love him, sir, Dearer than eyesight, space and liberty, Beyond what can be valued rich or rare, No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable—"

"Adieu! these foolish drops do somewhat drown my manly spirit." —Shakspeare.

"FREDDY, can I have half an hour's private conversation with you?" asked I, as soon as we had exchanged salutations.

"To be sure you can; but," he added, catching a glimpse of the anxious expression of my face, "there is nothing wrong, is there?"

I made a gesture indicative of silence, and he opened a door into a sort of lawyer's office, saying, in a low voice:—

"Come in here, we shall not be interrupted; the governor's in London, and the women are out walking". "So much the better," replied I, "for the business I am come upon is strictly private, and will not brook delay." I then told him as concisely as possible the whole affair ~206~~from beginning to end; he listened attentively to my recital, merely asking a question now and then to elucidate any particular point he did not clearly understand. I fancy he made a gesture of surprise when I first mentioned Wilford's name, and when I had concluded, he asked,

"Wilford, you say, this man's name is? What is his Christian name?"

"Stephen."

"And he's a young fellow?"

"About three or four and twenty."

"And you want to prevent his being able to shoot Harry Oaklands at five o'clock to-morrow morning?"

"I do not know the hour, but I conclude the meeting will probably take place to-morrow morning. Wilford would not wish to remain in the neighbourhood longer than necessary, lest he should attract attention."

Coleman mused for some minutes, and then muttering as though he were thinking aloud—

"It might be done, so; yes, that would do. I suppose," he said, at length addressing me, "if Master Wilford were taken into custody on a magistrate's warrant at half-past four a.m., that would suit your ideas very nicely? I can so arrange the matter that Wilford will never be able to trace the laying the information to our door."

"But how can you avoid that?" inquired I.

"Why, if you must know," replied Freddy, "I am acquainted with a man who would give a hundred pounds any day to stop our friend Stephen from fighting a duel."

"What, do you know Wilford then?" asked I.

"Ray-ther," was the reply, accompanied by a very significant wink—"just a very few—I should say we're not entire strangers, though I have never enjoyed the honour of much personal intercourse with him; but I do not so deeply regret that, as, from your account, it seems rather a dangerous privilege."

"How in the world do you know anything about him?"

"Oh! it's a long story, but the chief points of it are these: The aforesaid Mr. Wilford, if he can continue to exist till he is five-and-twenty, comes into five thousand pounds a year; but if we don't interfere, and Harry Oaklands has the luck to send a bullet into him to-morrow morning, away it all goes to the next heir. Wilford is now three-and-twenty, and the trustees make him a liberal allowance of eight hundred pounds per annum, on the strength of which he spends between two thousand pounds and three thousand pounds: of course, in order ~207~~to do this, he has to raise money on his expectancies. About two months ago he wanted to sell the contingent reversion of a large estate in Yorkshire, from which the greater part of his future income is to be derived; and a client of ours thought of buying it—ergo, we were set to work upon the matter: whilst we were investigating his right, title, and all that sort of thing, lo and behold! a heavy claim, amounting to some thousands, is made upon the property—by whom, do you think, of all people in the world?—none other than our old acquaintance, Richard Cumberland!"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed I, "how strange!"

"Cumberland," continued Freddy, "has become somehow connected with a lot of bill-brokers,—low stock-jobbers,—in fact, a very shady set of people, with whom, however, in our profession, we cannot avoid being sometimes brought into contact; he appears, indeed, himself to be a sort of cross between black-leg and money-lender, improved by a considerable dash of the gambler, and presenting altogether a very choice specimen of the thorough and complete blackguard. Somehow or other he contrives to have cash at command, and, instead of being pigeoned, has now taken to pigeoning others; and, to give the devil his due, I fancy he does a very pretty stroke of business in that line. He is a good deal improved in manner and appearance since you remember him; and among people who don't know him very intimately, he affects the man about town: in short, he is quite at the top of his profession. Wilford became acquainted with him at one of the Newmarket meetings, lost money to him, and borrowed money of him, giving him as security a contingent charge upon the estate of double the amount—ergo, don't you see, if Wilford should by any chance get his quietus from Harry's pistol, he won't live to come into his property, in which case Master Dicky Cumberland is minus some thousands. Now, if I contrive to give him a hint, depend upon it he stops the duel. I will caution him not to let my name appear—he will not hear yours; so in this way I think we may manage the affair, and defy the old gentleman himself, though he's a very cunning lawyer, to trace it to us."

"Well," said I, "as I see no other means of saving Oaklands' life—for this Wilford is a noted duellist, and no doubt thirsts to wash out the insult he has received in blood—I suppose we must do it; but it is an underhand proceeding which I do not at all like."

"There you go with your chivalric, high-flown, romantic ~208~~notions, you would stand coolly by, and see the best friend you have in the world butchered before your eyes, rather than avail yourself of a splendid chance of saving him, which Fortune has thrown in your way, because, forsooth, it involves a little innocent manoeuvring!—for heaven's sake, my dear boy, get off your stilts, and give common sense fair play."

"I can only repeat what I have just said," replied I; "I will do it, because I believe it is the only thing to save Harry; but I do not like it, and never shall."

"I cry you mercy, Signor Francisco dc Fairlegh, the veritable Don Quixote of the nineteenth century," laughed Freddy; "and now, most chivalrous sir, where do you imagine it probable that this evil faiteur, this man of powder and pistols, hangs out?"

"He is most likely at the inn at Carsley, a village on the London road, about four miles from us," replied I; "I don't know of any other place in the neighbourhood where he could be lodged. But I'll tell you what I'll do—the name of the inn is the White Horse—if I should prove wrong in fancying he is there, I will send a message to that inn to say where he may be found."

"Exactly," returned Freddy, entering the White Horse, Carsley, in his tablets; "now I think I know all about it, and it shall not be my fault if this duel comes off to-morrow morning. Good-bye, old fellow! I wish you did not look quite so grumpy about it, but it's all those mediaeval prejudices of yours. I daresay you'd think it a much more manly way of stopping the business to electrotype yourself in brass and steel, throw yourself across a cart-horse plated to match, and shouting, 'Fairlegh to the rescue!' run a long pole, pointed with iron, through Wilford's jugular. Now, I consider mine much the most philosophical way of doing the trick; in fact, conducting a dodge of this kind always affords me intense satisfaction, and puts me into the highest possible spirits. Have you ever seen the war dance, in which the Hotto-potto-cum-from-the-wash-ki Indians usually indulge before they set out on an expedition?—A quarter to three," he continued, pulling out his watch, "the coach to London passes in five minutes, I shan't have time to show it you—it begins so." Thus saying, he flung himself into a perfectly indescribable attitude, and commenced a series of evolutions, more nearly resembling the contortions of a dancing bear, than any other Terpsichorean exhibition with which I was acquainted. Having continued this until he had made himself very ~209~~unnecessarily hot, he wound up the performance by flinging a summerset, in doing which he overturned himself and the coal-scuttle into a box of deeds; whereby becoming embarrassed, he experienced much difficulty in getting right end upwards again. "There," he exclaimed, throwing himself into an arm-chair commonly occupied by his father's portly form—"There! talk of accomplishments—show me a fashionable young lady who can do that, and I'll say she is accomplished. It's rather warm work, though," he continued, wiping his brow, "unless one wears the appropriate costume, which, I believe, consists of a judicious mixture of red and yellow paint, three feathers, and the scalp of your opposite neighbour. Pleasant that," he added, pointing to the reversed coal-scuttle—"that's a new addition, not of 'Coke upon Littleton,' but of Coal upon—what's the suit? aye, Buffer versus Stoker. I shall have to make out a case of circumstantial evidence against the cat, or I'm safe for a rowing from the governor. Good-bye, old boy! don't fancy I'm mad; I'm not the fool I seem, though I confess appearances are against me just at present. There's the coach, by Jingo, three bays and a grey—no chance of the box—is this a hat? off we go." So saying, he shook my hand warmly, bounded down the steps, and the next moment was rattling away towards London as fast as four horses could hurry him.

It was with a heavy heart, and a foreboding of coming evil, that I mounted my horse, and slowly retraced my way towards Heathfield. Coleman's exuberant spirits, which, I believe, were partly assumed with a view to cheer me by diverting my attention from the painful subject which engrossed it, had produced an effect diametrically opposite to that which he had intended, and I felt dissatisfied with the step I had taken, doubtful of the success of his mission, anxious to a degree, which was absolutely painful, about the fate of Harry, and altogether thoroughly miserable. I reached home in time for dinner, during which meal my abstracted manner and low spirits were so apparent as to set my mother speculating on the chances of my having over-heated myself and "got a chill," whilst Fanny's anxious questioning glances, to which I was well aware I could furnish no satisfactory reply, produced in me a degree of nervous excitement which was unbearable, and, the moment the cloth was withdrawn, I left the room and rambled forth into the wildest parts of the park. The quiet peaceful beauty of the scene, and the refreshing coolness of the ~210~~evening air, had, in a great measure, calmed the excitement under which I laboured, and I was turning my steps towards the Hall when I met Oaklands and Archer, who, finding I was not at the cottage, had come in search of me. Half an hour's conversation served to render all my previous conjectures matters of certainty. The challenge had been given and accepted, Wentworth was to be Wilford's second, and he and his principal were staying at the inn at Carsley.

The spot chosen for the scene of action was a plot of grass-land situated about half-way between Carsley and Heathfield, so as to be equally accessible to both parties; the time appointed was five o'clock the following morning. Archer was to act as Oaklands' second; everything had been managed with the greatest caution, and they did not believe a single creature, excepting themselves, had the slightest suspicion that such an event was likely to take place. They had resolved not to tell me till everything was settled, as they feared my opposition. Having thus taken me into their confidence, Archer left us, saying, that "probably Oaklands might like to have some private conversation with me, and he would join us again in half an hour". Rejoiced at this opportunity, I entered at once upon the subject which most interested me, and used every argument I could think of to induce Harry not to return Wilford's fire.

Oaklands heard me for some time in silence, and I began to fear my efforts would be fruitless, when suddenly he turned towards me, and said—his fine eyes beaming with an almost womanly expression of tenderness as he spoke—"Would this thing make you happier in case I fall?" A silent pressure of the hand was my only answer, and he added in a low voice, "then it shall be as you wish". A pause ensued for my own part, the thought that this might be our last meeting completely overpowered me; I did not know till that moment the strength and intensity of my affection for him. The silence was at length interrupted by Oaklands himself, and the low tones of his deep rich voice trembled with emotion, as they fell mournfully on the stillness of the evening air. "My father!" he said, "that kind old man, whose happiness is wrapped up in my welfare—it will break his heart, for he has only me to love. Frank, my brother!" he added, passing his arm round my neck, as he had used to do when we were boys together, "you are young; your mind is strong and vigorous, and will enable you to meet sorrow as a man should confront and overcome whatever is ~211~~opposed to him in his path through life. I will not disguise from you that, looking rationally and calmly at the matter, I have but little hope of quitting the field to-morrow alive. My antagonist, naturally a man of vindictive disposition, is incensed against me beyond all power of forgiveness, and his skill is fully equal to his malice: should I fall, I leave my father to your care; be a son to him in the place of the one he will have lost. This is not a light thing which I ask of you, Frank! I ask you to give up your independence, your high hopes of gaining name and fortune by the exercise of your own talents and industry, and to devote some of the best years of your life to the weary task of complying with the caprices, and bearing the sorrows, of a grief-stricken old man. Will you do this for me, Frank?"

"I will," replied I; "and may God help me, as I execute this trust faithfully!"

"You have relieved my mind of half its burden," returned Oaklands warmly. "I have only one thing more to mention—When I came of age last year my father's liberality made over to me an ample income for a single man to live on: excepting a few legacies to old servants, I have divided this between your good little sister and yourself, which I thought you would prefer to my leaving it to you alone."

"Harry I indeed, I cannot allow you to do this; others must surely have claims upon you."

"There is not a being in the world who has a right to expect a farthing at my death," answered he; "the next heir to the entailed estates is a distant relation in Scotland, already wealthy. My father has always been a careful man, and, should he lose me, will have a larger income than he can possibly be able to spend; besides, as the duties I have led you to undertake must necessarily prevent you from engaging actively in any profession, I am bound in common fairness to provide for you."

"Be it so, then," replied I—inwardly breathing a prayer that I never might possess a sixpence of the promised fortune.

"One thing more," added Harry. "When you return to Trinity—poor old Trinity, shall I ever visit you again!—find out how Lizzie Maurice is going on, and if she should marry respectably in her own rank, ask my father to give you a hundred pounds as a wedding present for her; only hint that it was my wish, and he would give twenty times the sum. And now good—pshaw!" he continued, drawing his hand across his eyes, "I shall ~212~~play the woman if I talk to you much more—good-night, Frank—do you accompany us to the ground to-morrow morning?"

"I will go with you," returned I, with difficulty overcoming a choking sensation in my throat; "I may be able to be of some use."

"Here comes Archer," said Oaklands, "so once more good-night; I must get home, or my father will wonder what is become of me."

My heart was too full to speak, and pressing his hand I turned abruptly away, and walked quickly in the opposite direction.



CHAPTER XXVII — THE DUEL

"The sun begins to gild the western sky, And now it is about the very hour.

They will not fail, Unless it be to come before their time; So much they spur their expedition." —Shakspeare.

"Now go thy way: faintness constraineth me To measure out my length on this cold bed." —Shakspeare.

"And me they bore..... To one deep chamber shut from sound, and due To languid limbs and sickness." —Tennyson's Princess.

I DID not return to the cottage until the usual hour for going to bed, as I did not dare subject myself to Fanny's penetrating glance in my present state of excitement. The moment family prayers were concluded I took my candle, and, pleading fatigue, retired to my room. Knowing that sleep was out of the question in my then frame of mind, I merely substituted the clothes I intended to wear in the morning for those I had on, and, wrapping my dressing-gown round me, flung myself on the bed. Here I lay, tossing about, and unable to compose myself for an hour or two, the one idea constantly recurring to me, "What if Coleman should fail!" At length, feverish and excited, I sprang up, and throwing open the window which was near the ground, enjoyed the fresh breeze as it played around my heated temples. It was a lovely night; the stars, those calm eyes of heaven, gazed down in their brightness on this world of ~213~~sin and sorrow, seeming to reproach the stormy passions and restless strife of men by contrast with their own impassive grandeur. After remaining motionless for several minutes, I was about to close the window when the sound of a footstep on the turf beneath caught my ear, and a form, which I recognised in the moonlight as that of Archer, approached.

"Up and dressed already, Fairlegh?" he commenced in a low tone as he perceived me; "may I come in?"

In silence I held out my hand to him, and assisted him to enter.

"Like me," he resumed, "I suppose, you could not sleep."

"Utterly impossible," replied I; "but what brings you here—has anything occurred?"

"Nothing," returned Archer; "Oaklands retired early, as he said he wished to be alone, and I followed his example, but could not contrive to sleep. I don't know how it is, I was engaged in an affair of this nature once before, and never cared a pin about the matter; but somehow I have got what they call a presentiment that harm will come of to-morrow's business. I saw that man, Wilford, for a minute yesterday, and I know by the expression of his eye that he means mischief; there was such a look of fiendish triumph in his face when he found the challenge was accepted—if ever there was a devil incarnate, he is one."

A sigh was my only answer, for his words were but the echo of my forebodings.

"Now I will tell you what brought me here," he continued; "don't you think that we ought to have a surgeon on the ground, in case of anything going wrong?"

"To be sure," replied I; "I must have been mad to have forgotten that it was necessary—what can be done?—it is not every man that would choose to be mixed up with such an affair. Where is it that William Ellis's brother (Ellis of Trinity Hall, you know) has settled?—he told me he had purchased a practice somewhere in our neighbourhood."

"The very man, if we could but get him," replied Archer; "the name of the village is Harley End; do you know such a place?"

"Yes," returned I, "I know it well; it is a favourite meet of the hounds, about twelve miles hence. I'll find him, and bring him here—what time is it? just two—if I could get a horse I would do it easily."

"My tilbury and horse are up at the village," said ~214~~Archer; "now Harry's horses are at home, they could not take mine in at the hall."

"The very thing," said I, "we shall not lose a moment in that case. Is your horse fast? I shall have to try his mettle."

"He'll not fail you," was the reply, "but don't spare him—I would rather you should ruin fifty horses than arrive too late."

On reaching the inn we had to rouse a drowsy hostler in order to procure the key of the stables, and it was half-past two before I was able, to start.

The road to Harley End was somewhat intricate, more than once I took a wrong turning, and was forced to retrace my steps; being aware also of the distance I had to perform, I did not dare to hurry the horse too much, so that it only wanted a quarter to four when I reached my destination. Here, however, fortune favoured me. Mr. Ellis, it appeared, being an ardent disciple of Isaac Walton, had resolved to rise at day-break in order to beguile sundry trout, and, at the entrance of the village, I met him strolling along, rod in hand. Two minutes sufficed to make him acquainted with the object of my mission, and in less than five minutes more (a space of time which I employed in washing out the horse's mouth at an opportune horse-trough, with which I took the liberty of making free) he had provided himself with a case of instruments and other necessary horrors, all of which he described to me seriatim, as we returned, with an affectionate minuteness for which I could have strangled him.

We started at a rattling pace on our homeward drive, hedgerow and fence gliding by us like slides in a magic lantern. Archer's horse did not belie the character he had given of him. With head erect, and expanded nostril, he threw his legs forward in a long slashing trot, whirling the light tilbury along at the rate of at least eleven miles an hour; and fortunate it was that he did not flinch from his work, for we had between thirteen and fourteen miles to perform in an hour and ten minutes in order to reach the appointed spot by five o'clock. In our way we had to pass within a quarter of a mile of Heathfield Hall; all seemed quiet as we did so, and I heard the old clock over the stables strike a quarter to five.

"We shall be in capital time," said I, drawing a long breath, as I felt relieved from an anxious dread of being too late. "It was a near thing though, and if I had not met you as I did, we should scarcely have done it."

"Famous horse," replied Ellis; "but you've rather ~215~~over-driven him the last two or three miles; if I were Archer, I should have a little blood taken from him—nothing like venesection; it's safe practice in such cases as the present. You've a remarkably clear head, Fairlegh, I know; now I'll just explain to you the common sense of the thing: the increased action of the heart forces the blood so rapidly through the lungs, that proper time is not allowed for oxygenisation——"

"We shall be in sight of the place when we have advanced another hundred yards," interrupted I, as we turned down a green lane.

"Shall we?" replied my companion, standing up in the gig, and shading his eyes with his hand. "Yes, I see them, they're on the ground already, and, by Jove, they are placing their men; they must have altered the time, for it wants full ten minutes of five now."

"If they have," replied I, lashing the horse into a gallop, as I remembered that this unhappy change would probably frustrate Coleman's scheme, "if they have, all is lost."

My companion gazed upon me with a look of surprise, but had no time to ask for an explanation, for at that moment we reached the gate leading into the field, around which was collected a group, consisting of a gig and a dog-cart (which had conveyed the respective parties, and a servant attendant upon each, to the ground), and two or three labouring men, whom the unusual occurrence had caused to leave their work, and who were eagerly watching the proceedings—whilst, just inside the gate, a boy, whom I recognised as Wilford's tiger, was leading about a couple of saddle-horses, one of them being the magnificent black thorough-bred mare, of which mention has been already made.

Pulling up the horse with a jerk which threw him on his haunches, I sprang out, and, placing my hand on the top rail of the gate, leaped over it, gaining, as I did so, a full view of the antagonist parties, who were stationed at about two hundred yards from the spot where I alighted. Scarcely, however, had I taken a step or two towards the scene of action when one of the seconds, Wentworth, I believe, dropped a white handkerchief, and immediately the sharp report of a pistol rang in my ear, followed instantaneously by a second. From the first moment I caught sight of them my eyes had become riveted by a species of fascination, which rendered it impossible to withdraw them, upon Oaklands. As the handkerchief dropped I beheld him raise his arm, and discharge his ~216~~pistol in the air, at the same moment he gave a violent start, pressed his hand to his side, staggered blindly forward a pace or two, then fell heavily to the ground (rolling partially over as he did so), where he lay perfectly motionless, and to all appearance dead.



On finding all my worst forebodings thus apparently realised, I stood for a moment horror-stricken by the fearful sight I had witnessed. I was first roused to a sense of the necessity for action by Ellis, the surgeon, who shouted as he ran past me:—

"Come on, for God's sake, though I believe he's a dead man!"'

In another moment I was kneeling on the turf, assisting Archer (who trembled so violently that he could scarcely retain his grasp) to raise and support Oaklands' head.

"Leave him to me," said I; "I can hold him without assistance; you will be of more use helping Ellis."

"Oh! he's dead—I tell you he is dead!" exclaimed Archer in a tone of the most bitter anguish.

"He is no such thing, sir," returned Ellis angrily; "hand me that lint, and don't make such a fuss; you're as bad as a woman."

Though slightly reassured by Ellis's speech, I confess that, as I looked upon the motionless form I was supporting, I felt half inclined to fear Archer might be correct in his supposition. Oaklands' head, as it rested against me, seemed to lie a perfectly dead weight upon my shoulder; the eyes were closed, the lips, partly separated, were rapidly assuming a blue, livid tint, whilst from a small circular orifice on the left side of the chest the life-blood was gushing with fearful rapidity.

"Open that case of instruments, and take out the tenaculum. No, no! not that; here, give them to me, sir; the man will bleed to death while you are fumbling," continued Ellis, snatching his instruments from the trembling hands of Archer. "You are only in the way where you are," he added; "fetch some cold water, and sprinkle his face; it will help to revive him."

At this moment Wilford joined the group which was beginning to form round us. He was dressed as usual in a closely-fitting suit of black, the single-breasted frockcoat buttoned up to the neck, so as not to show a single speck of white which might serve to direct his antagonist's aim. He approached with his wonted air of haughty indifference, coolly fastening the button of his glove. On perceiving me he slightly raised his hat, saying:—

"You are resolved to see this matter to its conclusion, ~217~~then, Mr. Fairlegh; no one can be better aware than you are how completely your friend brought his fate upon himself".

He paused as if for an answer; but, as I remained silent, not being able to trust myself to speak, he added, gazing sternly at the prostrate form before him—"Thus perish all who dare to cross my path!" Then casting a withering glance around, as he marked the indignant looks of the by-standers, he turned on his heel and stalked slowly away.

"He'd best quicken his pace," observed one of the countrymen who had joined the group, "for there's them a coming as may stop his getting away quite so easy."

As he spoke the gate of the field was thrown open, and a couple of men on horseback rode hastily in. Wilford, however, as soon as he perceived their approach, made a sign to the boy to bring his horse, and, springing lightly into the saddle, waited quietly till they came near enough for him to recognise their faces, when, raising his voice, he said in a tone of the most cutting sarcasm:—

"As I expected, I perceive it is to Mr. Cumberland's disinterested attachment that I am indebted for this kind attempt to provide for my safety; it so happens you are a quarter of an hour too late, sir. I have the honour to wish you good-morning."

Thus saying, he turned his horse's head, and cantered across the field. The man he had addressed, and in whom, though he was considerably altered, I recognised the well-remembered features of Richard Cumberland, paused, as if in doubt what to do; not so his companion, however, who, shouting, "Come on, sir, we may nab him yet," drove the spurs into the stout roadster he bestrode and galloped furiously after him, an example which Cumberland, after a moment's hesitation, hastened to follow, though at a more moderate rate. Wilford suffered the foremost rider to come nearly up to him, and then, quickening his pace, led him round the two sides of the field; but perceiving the gate was closed, and that men had stationed themselves in front of it to prevent his egress, he doubled upon his pursuers, and, putting the mare for the first time to her full speed, galloped towards the opposite side of the field, which was enclosed by a strong fence, consisting of a bank with oak palings on the top and a wide ditch beyond. Slackening his pace as he approached this obstacle, he held his horse cleverly together, and, without a moment's hesitation, rode at it. The beautiful animal, gathering her legs well under her, ~218~~faced it boldly, rose to the rail, and, clearing it with the greatest ease, bounded lightly over the ditch, and continued her course on the further side with unabated speed. Apparently determined not to be outdone, his pursuer, whipping and spurring with all his might, charged the fence at the same spot where Wilford had cleared it; the consequence was his horse rushed against the rail, striking his chest with so much violence as to throw himself down, pitching his rider over his head into the ditch beyond, whence he emerged, bespattered with mud, indeed, but otherwise uninjured. As he reappeared his companion rode up to him, and, after conversing with him earnestly for a minute or so, turned and left the field, without exchanging a word with any other person.

During this transaction, which did not occupy one-fourth of the time it has taken us to describe, Ellis had in a great measure succeeded in staunching the flow of blood, and a slight shade of colour became again visible in Oaklands' cheek.

"He will bear moving now," said Ellis quickly, "but you must find something to lay him upon; take that gate off its hinges, some of you fellows—that will answer the purpose capitally. Come, bestir yourselves; every moment is of importance."

Thus urged, five or six sturdy labourers, who had been standing round, gazing with countenances of rude but sincere commiseration on the wounded man (for Harry's kind-heartedness and liberality made him very popular amongst the tenantry), started off, and returned in an incredibly short space of time with the gate; upon this were spread our coats and waistcoats, so as to form a tolerably convenient couch, upon which, under Ellis's direction, we lifted with the greatest caution the still insensible form of Harry Oaklands.

"Now," exclaimed Ellis, "raise him very slowly on your shoulders, and take care to step together, so as not to jolt him;—if the bleeding should break out again, the whole College of Surgeons could not save him. Where's the nearest house he can be taken to? He'll never last out till we reach the Hall."

"Take him to our cottage," said I eagerly; "it is more than half a mile nearer than the Hall."

"But your mother and sister?" asked Archer.

"Of course it will be a great shock to them," replied I; "but I know them both well enough to feel sure they would not hesitate a moment when Harry's life was in ~219~~the balance. Do you want me for anything, or shall I go on and prepare them for your arrival?"

"Do so, by all means," replied Ellis; "but stay—have you a bedroom on the ground-floor?"

"Yes," returned I, "my own."

"Get the bed-clothes open," continued Ellis, "so that we can put him in at once; it will save me half an hour's time afterwards, and is a thing which should always be thought of on these occasions."

"Anything else?" inquired I.

"Yes, send somebody for the nearest surgeon; two heads are better than one," said Ellis.

Remembering, as I approached the cottage, that the window of my room by which Archer and I had quitted it the previous night would be unfastened, I determined I would enter there, and, proceeding to my mother's door, call her up, and break the news as gently as the exigency of the case would permit, leaving her to act by Fanny as she should think best. Accordingly, I flung up the window, sprang in, and, throwing myself on the nearest chair, sat for a moment, panting from the speed at which I had come. As I did so, a timid knock was heard at the door. I instinctively cried, "Come in!" and Fanny entered.

"I have been so anxious all night about what you told me yesterday, that I could not sleep, so I thought I would come to see if you were up," she commenced; then, for the first time remarking my breathless condition and disordered dress, she exclaimed, "Good Heavens! are you ill? you pant for breath, and your hands and the sleeves of your coat are saturated with water—with—oh! it is blood; you are wounded!" she cried, sinking in a chair, and turning as pale as ashes.

"Indeed, darling, you are alarming yourself unnecessarily; I am perfectly uninjured," replied I soothingly.

"Something dreadful has happened!" she continued, fixing her eyes upon me; "I read it in your face."

"An accident has occurred," I began; "Oaklands——"

"Stop!" she exclaimed, interrupting me, "the two shots I heard but now—his agitation—his strange manner yesterday—oh! I see it all; he has been fighting a duel." She paused, pressed her hands upon her eyes, as if to shut out some dreadful vision, and then asked, in a low, broken voice, "Is he killed?"

"No," replied I, "on my word, on my honour, I assure you he is not; the bleeding had ceased when I left him, which is a very favourable symptom."

~220~~Fanny sighed heavily, as if relieved from some unbearable weight, and, after remaining silent for about a minute, she removed her hands from her face, and said, in a calm tone of voice:—

"And now, what is to be done? can I be of any use?"

Astonished at the rapidity with which she had regained her self-control and presence of mind after the violent emotion she had so recently displayed, I replied:—

"Yes, love, you can, the Hall is too far off, and they are bringing him here".

As I spoke these words she shuddered slightly, but seeing I was doubtful whether to proceed, she said, "Go on, pray".

"Would you," I continued, "break this to my mother, and tell her I believe—that is, I trust—there is no great danger—and—and—do that first."

With a sad shake of the head, as if she mistrusted my attempt to reassure her, she quitted the room, whilst I obeyed Ellis's instructions by preparing the bed; after which I unclosed the hall-door, and, despatching the gardener's boy to fetch the surgeon, stood anxiously awaiting the arrival of the party. I had not done so many minutes when the measured tramp of feet gave notice of their approach, and in another instant they came in sight.



CHAPTER XXVIII — THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW

"Recovery, where art thou?

Daughter of Heaven, where shall we seek thy help?"

"Come thou and chase away Sorrow and Pain, the persecuting Powers, Who make the melancholy day so long, So long the anxious night."

"I look for thy approach, O life-preserving Power! as one who strays Alone in darkness o'er the pathless marsh, Watches the dawn of day." —Southey.

"ALL well so far," replied Ellis, in answer to my look of inquiry; "the bleeding has ceased, and he is fast recovering consciousness. Where is the room? We must get him into bed at once."

~221~~When we had placed him in the bed Oaklands lay for a short space with his eyelids closed, uttering a low groan at intervals; at length the quiet appeared in some measure to restore him, and, slowly opening his eyes, he gazed languidly around, asking in a low voice, "Where am I?"

"Let me beg you not to speak, Mr. Oaklands," said Ellis; "your safety depends upon your keeping silence; you are at the cottage of your friend Fairlegh."

As he heard these words Harry perceived me standing near the bed, and smiled faintly in token of recognition; then, making a sign for me to stoop down to him, he whispered, "My father—you must break this to him—go, Frank".

"This instant," replied I, and I turned to leave the room, beckoning to Ellis, as I did so, to follow me. "Tell me the truth," exclaimed I, as he closed the door behind him, "will he live or die?"

"It is too early in the business to pronounce a decided opinion," was the answer; "nor can I venture as yet to do so; everything depends upon the course the ball may have taken, and that, as soon as the other surgeon arrives, we must endeavour to ascertain; all I can say at present is, that I have seen worse cases recover. There is one thing," he added, "which may be a satisfaction for you to know—if you had not brought me, or some one in my profession, to the ground, he would have bled to death where he fell; no one but a surgeon could have stopped that bleeding."

"If we had been too late I should never have forgiven myself, and we very nearly were so," returned I. "I cannot understand how it was."

"I can explain it," said Archer, who now joined us. "You left me up at the village, you remember, Fairlegh, when you started to fetch Mr. Ellis; well, just as I was leaving it to return to the Hall, a boy ran past me at the top of his speed, and began knocking at one of the cottage doors hard by; surprised to see any one about at so early an hour in the morning, I inquired what was the matter. 'Master's just had word brought him that some gem'men is a going to fight a jewel at five o'clock, and I be come to call the constable, for master to give him a warrant to take 'em hup.' 'And who is your master?' questioned I. 'Justice Bumbleby,' was the answer. This was enough for me; I made the best of my way to the Hall, woke Oaklands, who was sleeping as calmly as a child, poor fellow! and he immediately sent his own ~222~~groom, the lad who went with us to the field, to inform Wilford and his second of what I had heard, and to propose that the meeting should take place a quarter of an hour earlier than the time originally agreed on, to which they willingly consented."

"This then," thought I, "is the reason why Coleman's scheme failed, and Cumberland arrived too late;—well, one good thing is, it will clearly prove that neither Archer nor Oaklands connived at the intended interruption."

The deep, the agonising grief of Sir John Oaklands, on receiving from my lips the account of his son's danger, was most painful to witness, and I was obliged to yield to his desire to return with me to the cottage, although Ellis had strictly forbidden his being allowed to see Harry, lest the excitement should prove injurious to the patient in the precarious state in which he lay. On my return I found the surgeon of the neighbourhood, Mr. (or as he was more commonly styled Dr.) Probehurt, had arrived, and that they were endeavouring to extract the ball, which, after a long and painful operation, they succeeded in doing. From the marks on the coat and waistcoat, it appeared that Wilford had aimed straight for the heart; but his deadly intentions had been providentially frustrated by the accident of Oaklands having a half-crown piece in a small pocket in his waist-coat, against which the ball had struck, and, glancing off, passed between two of the ribs, finally lodging amongst the muscles immediately under the shoulder-blade. The great effusion of blood had been occasioned by its having divided one of the smaller arteries, which Ellis had succeeded in securing on the spot. The wound was, therefore, a very severe one; but it was impossible to pronounce upon the exact amount of danger at present, as the course which the ball had taken trenched closely on so many important organs, that time alone could show the extent of the injury sustained. With this opinion, in which (strange to say) both doctors agreed, we were fain to content ourselves, and we passed the rest of the day in alternately watching by the wounded man and attempting to comfort and support Sir John, whom we had the greatest difficulty in keeping out of Harry's room, till Ellis asked him abruptly "whether he wanted to murder his son?" after which nothing short of force could have induced him to enter it. One of his first acts, having consulted with Dr. Probehurt, who graciously approved of the measure, was to enter into an arrangement with ~223~~Ellis, to induce him to remain constantly with Harry till his health should be perfectly re-established, if, indeed, that happy event was ever destined to occur. As Sir John's liberality was unbounded, and Ellis's professional prospects rather hazy—his practice at Harley End being chiefly confined to the very poor, who went on the advice gratis system, and expected to have medicine given them into the bargain—the negotiation was soon concluded to the satisfaction of both parties.

Towards evening Harry became more restless; the pain of his wound increased, and feverish symptoms began to make their appearance. As the night advanced he grew delirious, and before morning was in a high state of fever. For many days his life was despaired of. Ellis never left his bedside, save to snatch an occasional hour's sleep on a sofa, when I took his place. Sir Benjamin Brodie was summoned from town, and held a consultation with Dr. Probehurt and Ellis.

Sir John's grief was something fearful to witness. Although naturally a strong-minded man, this unlooked-for blow and the subsequent anxiety had completely unnerved him. At times he would cry like a child; at others he would sit for hours without opening his lips, his head resting dejectedly on his hands, the image of despair: he could with difficulty be prevailed upon to take sufficient nourishment for his support, and appeared scarcely to notice anything that was going on. On these occasions Fanny was the only person whose influence was of the slightest avail; with her own hands she would prepare some delicacy of which she knew he was fond, and when with a melancholy shake of the head he rejected it, she would seat herself at his feet, and, taking his hand within her own, whisper kind words of hope and consolation to him, till the old man's heart was softened, and he could refuse her nothing. Sometimes even this failed, and then she would begin singing in a low sweet voice some plaintive simple air that he loved to hear, till the tears would steal down his grief-worn cheeks, and, laying his hand upon her fair young brow, he would bless her, and say that the God who was about to take his noble son from him, had sent an angel to be a daughter to him in his stead. And so the weary days wore on—still vibrating between life and death, the strong man, his matchless powers now reduced to the weakness of infancy, lay stretched upon the couch of suffering, whence it appeared too probable he might never be removed, save to the last sad resting-place of frail humanity—the grave.

~224~~About the eighth day the ligature with which Ellis had tied the artery came away, and the wound assumed a rather more favourable appearance, but the fever remained unsubdued, and the delirium continued. Each day which passed without improvement added to the length of Dr. Probehurt's solemn visage, and I could see that in his own mind he had little or no hope of the patient's recovery. Ellis was by far the most sanguine of the party, and, whenever we urged our gloomy forebodings upon him, invariably replied—"Yes, I know all that—it would have killed' any other man, but it won't kill him. Wait a bit, and you'll see."

A fortnight had now elapsed, and the continued burden of his grief began to tell visibly upon Sir John. The ruddy hue of health faded from his cheeks; his eyes grew dim with weeping, his hands shook, and his firm manly step became feeble and uncertain; it seemed as if in that short space of time he had grown ten years older. My mother also began to look ill and harassed, and Fanny, though she still kept up wonderfully, and was the life and soul of us all, waxed paler and thinner every day, while, for my own part, I could neither eat, drink, nor sleep to any efficient purpose, and divided my time between watching in the sick-room and pacing up and down the garden, beyond the precincts of which I never ventured, from a nervous dread lest anything might go wrong in my absence.

On one occasion Ellis, completely wearied out, had thrown himself on a sofa to snatch an hour's repose, while I took his place by Harry's bedside. It was between two and three o clock in the morning, and the first rays of early dawn, stealing in through the partially closed shutters, and mingling with the faint glimmer of the night-lamp, threw a pale and ghastly light over the surrounding objects, when I fancied that I heard my name pronounced in a low, scarcely audible voice. I glanced at Ellis, but his hard and regular breathing proved him to be sound asleep. I next turned towards the bed where Harry lay, and, carefully shading the lamp with my hand, advanced with noiseless step towards it. As I approached I perceived the patient's eyes were open, and, oh, happiness I once more animated by the mild light of reason.

"Harry," whispered I, "did you call? Do you know me?"

A faint smile passed across his pallid features as he replied in a voice so weak and low, that I was obliged to ~225~~stoop my head almost to a level with his lips, ere I could catch his words—"Know you, dear Frank! why not?"

"Thank heaven," murmured I, "he is no longer delirious!"

As I again turned towards him, he endeavoured to stretch out his hand to me, but his strength was unequal even to that slight exertion, and his arm dropped heavily by his side; as it did so, he spoke again—"Frank, what is all this? I cannot—I am very weak—very tired."

"Lie still, dear Harry, and do not try to talk—it may do you harm. You have been very ill, but God in His mercy will soon, I trust, restore you to health." I then crossed over to Ellis's sofa, and laid my hand lightly upon his shoulder. "Oaklands is no longer delirious," said I, as he started up; "he knows me, and has spoken to me."

"Is he?—does he?—has he?"—exclaimed Ellis in an eager whisper. "I told you it would never kill him. Why didn't you call me before? but it's always the way; if I do by any chance fall asleep once in a week, there isn't another head properly so called in the whole house, they might as well be chair nobs—Yes, I know," he continued, as I attempted to get in a word of explanation, "if you couldn't wake me before it happened, that doesn't prevent your giving me the medicine-chest now, does it?"

I may as well take this opportunity of mentioning that Ellis, though in the main one of the best-tempered fellows in the world, whenever he was particularly interested or excited, became extremely cross and snappish, and was certain at such times to scold every one who fell in his way, without the slightest regard to age, sex, or station. However, it was always over in two or three minutes, and I have seen him laugh till the tears ran down his face, when the rude things he had said were repeated to him afterwards. While he was staying with his brother at Cambridge, it used to be a favourite amusement with some of the men to start a subject which they knew would excite him, for the sake of "getting a rise out of the doctor," as they termed it. But I am digressing.

The medicine Ellis gave Harry threw him into a heavy sleep, from which he did not awake until late in the morning, when he appeared perfectly conscious. The fever had in great measure abated, and on Dr. Probehurt's arrival he was fain to confess a surprising improvement had taken place, and that, if not positively out of danger, the patient was in a fair way to become so. As for Ellis, he was exactly like one beside himself. He ran all over the house—into bedrooms and all sorts of places where ~226~~he had not the slightest business, shaking hands with every one, and repeating, "I knew it—I knew it—I always told you so—it would have killed any other man, but it couldn't kill him!"

Let us pass in silence over the first interview between Sir John Oaklands and his son. There are some of the deeper feelings of our nature, planted in our bosoms by the hand of God Himself, which, when called forth to their fullest extent by the chances of life, reveal so clearly their divine origin, that those who witness their display stand reverently by, and, with throbbing hearts and averted eyes, bow the head as in presence of some holy thing; and if such pure and sacred influences shed their lustre over that meeting, and the old man wept tears of deep and fervent thankfulness on the neck of the son whom he had, as it were, received from the dead, far be it from us, with sacrilegious hand, to remove the veil which shrouds the hallowed mysteries of feeling.

From that day Oaklands began to amend slowly, and, at the end of another week, even the cautious Dr. Probehurt declared all immediate danger was over; for which admission, however, he took care fully to indemnify himself, by detailing at length every possible evil which might accrue for the future. The state of weakness to which Harry's once herculean frame was reduced was melancholy to witness; for many days he was unable to turn in his bed without assistance, and even when he began to recover his strength, it was by very slow and lingering degrees. Utterly unable to support himself, he was lifted from his bed to a sofa, and wheeled into the drawing-room, where all our powers of entertainment were called into requisition to relieve the monotony of such a state of existence. In doing this, Fanny made herself pre-eminently useful; by a sort of intuition she appeared to divine everything he could possibly want before he asked for it, and contrived to have it waiting his pleasure as if by magic; and yet it was done so quietly, that I believe Harry had not a notion to whom he was indebted for the forestalment of his every wish. Did his lips appear parched and dry from the low fever which still hung about him—unobserved by any one, Fanny would glide out of the room, and in another minute his servant would enter with a tray containing jelly, lemonade, or some refreshment of a like nature; and Harry would say, with a languid smile, that the fairies must have been at work, for that Wilson had brought him the very thing he was wishing for. As he grew stronger, and ~227~~required less attention, I yielded to his request, and once more resumed my studies, reading doubly hard in order to make up for lost time. The duel had taken place early in June, but it was not until the latter end of August that the surgeons would allow of their patient's removal to the Hall. Under Ellis's directions a kind of litter was prepared, drawn by a stout Shetland pony, and hung upon a complicated arrangement of springs, by which means all possibility of jolting was avoided. With the assistance of this vehicle, Harry was enabled to take short airings in the park, and, when it was found that no ill effects ensued, a fine day was chosen, and Heathfield Hall flung wide its ample gates to receive once more within its walls the heir of that noble property. It was a glad day for every one—the old servants shed mingled tears of joy and sorrow; of joy that their young master had been spared to come among them again, and of sorrow when they gazed on his pallid cheeks and long thin hands, and thought of the amount of suffering that manly frame must have undergone ere it could have become such a wreck of its former self.

After his return home Oaklands progressed very slowly; he so far recovered as to walk about the house and garden with the assistance of Ellis's arm; but the wound in his side still presented an unsatisfactory appearance, and obstinately refused to heal. Ellis's skill and attention were unparalleled; he took the greatest interest in the case, and though he pretended that his zeal was entirely professional, yet it was clear the fascination which Harry seemed unconsciously to exercise over every one who became intimate with him, had subdued even the sturdy doctor, and that he had conceived the strongest affection for his patient.

The only one of the party on whom the fatigue and anxiety appeared to have produced any lasting effect was dear little Fanny, and she continued to look much more pale and thin than I liked to see her. Her spirits, also, seemed less gay and buoyant than usual, and when Sir John and Harry left us, and she had no longer any motive for exertion, a kind of languor came over her, producing a listless distaste for all her former employments; and she would sit for hours poring over one of the Italian poets, without exchanging a word with any one. In order, if possible, to rouse her from this state of apathy, I used every means in my power to interest and amuse her; but, unfortunately, my time was now so fully occupied that I had little leisure to bestow upon her. I ~228~~was to take my degree at the commencement of the new year; and, as I had made up my mind to try for honours, I had not a moment to lose, and read eight hours a day. The rest of my time was devoted to Sir John and Harry (save an odd hour or two for a constitutional scamper with my gun through the preserves to keep down the rabbits, or a gallop across country to prevent the hunters from getting too fat), and our kind friends were never so well pleased as when they could persuade us all to come to them. My sister, however, seemed to prefer dreaming over her book to the exertion of accompanying us to the Hall, and even when she did so, appeared unequal to the labour of amusing Harry, and devoted herself to the more easy task of pleasing Sir John, who, happy beyond expression in the prospect of his son's recovery, was in the highest good humour with everybody and everything. Becoming at length far from satisfied about Fanny, I mentioned my uneasiness to my mother, who comforted me by the assurance, that she considered it merely the natural consequences of the fatigue and anxiety she had undergone, a sort of reaction of the spirits, for which time and rest would prove the most effectual cure.

And once again the leaves upon the trees grew brown, presenting, in their varied richness, those exquisite shades of colouring that gladden a painter's eye—and the swallows, those summer parasites, taking alarm at the first sharp blast from the north, had departed to prosecute their annual pursuit of sunshine under difficulties, leaving the honest robin redbreast to renew his friendship with the race of men—when I, dissatisfied and anxious about those I was leaving behind me, and nervous in the highest degree as to the result of the struggle for distinction in which I was about to engage, once more took up my abode at Trinity.~229~~



CHAPTER XXIX — THE STRUGGLE IN CHESTERTON MEADOW

"Men Put forth their sons to seek preferment out.

Some to the studious universities, For any or for all these exercises."

"Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you; If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you."

"A rescue! a rescue! Good people bring a rescue or two!"

"Construe me, art thou a gentleman? What is thy name? Discuss!" —Shakspeare.

HAVING now no one to interfere with me, I determined to read as hard as my powers, mental and bodily, would allow, so as to give my talents, be they great or small, full scope, and endeavour to evince my gratitude to my unknown benefactor in the only manner that lay open to me, i.e., by proving to him that his liberality had not been thrown away. As the men began to come up, I took care to let it be generally known among my friends that I was reading steadily and in earnest, with a view of going out in honours; and when they became convinced that this was the case, and that whenever I "sported oak" there was positively "no admittance," they left me to my fate, as one who, in the words of Lawless, "having strayed from the paths of virtue and—eh!—what do you call it? —jollity—had fallen a victim to the vice of mathematics—not a hope of recovery—a regular case of hydrostatics on the brain—eh! don't you see?"

Besides the regular college tutor, I secured the assistance of what, in the slang of the day, we irreverently termed "a coach," which vehicle, for the conveyance of heavy learning (from himself to his pupils), consisted of a gentleman who, but few years older than those whom he taught, possessed more practical knowledge, and a greater aptitude for the highest scientific research, than it had ever before been my fate to meet with combined in any one individual. Under his able tuition I advanced rapidly, and reading men began to look upon me as a somewhat formidable rival. Several of my opponents, however, were men of first-rate talent, whose powers of mind, as I could not for a moment disguise from myself, ~230~~were infinitely superior to my own, and with whom my only chance of competing successfully would be by the exercise of indefatigable perseverance and industry. Daylight, therefore (which at this season did not make its appearance over early), found me book in hand, and midnight saw me still seated at my desk—sometimes with a wet towel bound round my head, to cool the throbbing of my heated brow; at others, with a tea-pot of strong green tea by my side, to arouse and stimulate my wearied faculties: conventional specifics, of which, by the way, I very quickly discovered the fallacy.

A fear of completely knocking up, however, induced me to preserve some little method in my madness. I laid down a rule to walk for a couple of hours every day, and thus, although I grew pale and thin, no very dangerous effects appeared likely to ensue from my exertions.

One evening, about a week before the examinations were to begin, I was taking my usual constitutional after Hall; and, careless which way I turned my steps, crossed the river at Moore's, and followed the footpath which led over the fields to the village of Chesterton. There had been a cattle fair at some place in the neighbourhood, which had drawn together a number of disreputable characters, and, in the course of my walk, I passed two or three parties of rather suspicious-looking men. Having nothing valuable about me, however, I continued my walk. I had advanced some half mile or more, when I was roused from my meditations by a cry of "Thieves I thieves! help! hoy! thieves, I say!" accompanied by the noise of blows. When these sounds first reached me I was close to a hedge and stile, across which the footpath led, and from the farther side of which the cries proceeded. It was growing dark, but there still remained light enough to distinguish objects at a moderate distance. To bound over the stile and cast my eyes around was the work of a moment, nor was I much longer in taking part in an affray which was going on.

The person whose cries I had heard was a stout little man, respectably dressed, who was defending himself vigorously with what seemed in the twilight a club, but which turned out eventually to be an umbrella, against the attacks of a tall, strapping fellow, in a rough frieze coat, who was endeavouring to wrest his weapon from him. A still more formidable adversary was, however, approaching in the shape of a second ruffian, who had armed himself with a thick stake out of the hedge, and was creeping cautiously up behind the shorter man, with ~231~~the evident intention of knocking him on the head. I instantly determined to frustrate his benevolent design, nor was there much time to lose, if I wished my assistance to prove of much avail. Shouting, therefore, as well to intimidate the scoundrels as to let the person attacked know that there was succour at hand, I sprang upon the man who held the cudgel, and, seizing his uplifted arm, succeeded in averting the coming blow from the head of the intended victim, who, ignorant of the impending danger, was making most furious thrusts at his assailant with the point of his umbrella, a novel mode of attack, which seemed to perplex and annoy that individual in no small degree.