"My dear madam," exclaimed I, "you were as nearly as possible down; I hope you have not hurt yourself."

"No, my dear—I mean—Mr. Fairlegh; no! I hope I have not, except my ankle. I gave that a twist somehow, and it hurts me dreadfully; but I daresay I shall be able to go on in a minute."

The good lady's hopes, however, were not destined in this instance to be fulfilled, for, on attempting to proceed, the pain increased to such an extent, that she was forced, after limping a few steps, to seat herself on a stone by the wayside, and it became evident that she must have sprained her ankle severely, and would be utterly unable to walk home. In this dilemma it was not easy to discover what was the best thing to do—no vehicle could be procured nearer than Hillingford, from which place we were at least two miles distant, and I by no means approved of leaving my companions in their present helpless state during the space of time which must necessarily elapse ere I could go and return. Mrs. Coleman, who, although suffering from considerable pain, bore it with the greatest equanimity and good nature, seeming to think much more of the inconvenience she was likely to occasion us, than of her own discomforts, had just hit upon some brilliant but totally impracticable project, when our ears were gladdened by the sound of wheels, and in another moment a little pony-chaise, drawn by a ~268~~ fat, comfortable-looking pony, came in sight, proceeding in the direction of Hillingford. As soon as the driver, a stout, rosy-faced gentleman, who proved to be the family apothecary, perceived our party, he pulled up, and, when he became aware of what had occurred, put an end to our difficulties by offering Mrs. Coleman the unoccupied seat in his chaise.

"Sorry I can't accommodate you also, Miss Saville," he continued, raising his hat; "but you see it's rather close packing as it is. If I were but a little more like the medical practitioner who administered a sleeping draught to Master Romeo now, we might contrive to carry three."

"I really prefer walking such a cold day as this, thank you, Mr. Pillaway," answered Miss Saville.

"Mind you take proper care of poor Clara, Mr. Fairlegh," said Mrs. Coleman, "and don't let her sprain her ankle, or do anything foolish, and don't you stay out too long yourself and catch cold, or I don't know what Mrs. Fairlegh will say, and your pretty sister, too—what a fat pony, Mr. Pillaway; you don't give him much physic, I should think—good-bye, my dears, good-bye—remember the boiled beef."

As she spoke, the fat pony, admonished by the whip, described a circle with his tail, frisked with the agility of a playful elephant, and then set off at a better pace than from his adipose appearance I had deemed him capable of doing.

"With all her oddity, what an unselfish, kind-hearted, excellent little person Mrs. Coleman is!" observed I, as the pony-chaise disappeared at an angle of the road.

"Oh! I think her charming," replied my companion warmly, "she is so very good-natured."

"She is something beyond that," returned I; "mere good-nature is a quality I rate very low: a person may be good-natured, yet thoroughly selfish, for nine times out of ten it is easier and more agreeable to say 'yes' than 'no'; but there is such an entire forgetfulness of self, apparent in all Mrs. Coleman's attempts to make those around her happy and comfortable, that, despite her eccentricities, I am beginning to conceive quite a respect for the little woman."

"You are a close observer of character it seems, Mr. Fairlegh," remarked my companion.

"I scarcely see how any thinking person can avoid being so," returned I; "there is no study that appears to me to possess a more deep and varied interest."

"You make mistakes, though, sometimes," replied ~269~~ Miss Saville, glancing quickly at me with her beautiful eyes.

"You refer to my hasty judgment of last night," said I, colouring slightly. "The mournful words of your song led me to conclude that, in one instance, high spirits might not be a sure indication of a light heart; and yet I would fain hope," added I in a half-questioning tone, "that you merely sought to inculcate a general principle."

"Is not that a very unusual species of heath to find growing in this country?" was the rejoinder.

"Really, I am no botanist," returned I, rather crossly, for I felt that I had received a rebuff, and was not at all sure that I might not have deserved it.

"Nay, but I will have you attend; you did not even look towards the place where it is growing," replied Miss Saville, with a half-imperious, half-imploring glance, which it was impossible to resist.

"Is that the plant you mean?" asked I, pointing to a tuft of heath on the top of a steep bank by the roadside.

On receiving a reply in the affirmative, I continued: "Then I will render you all the assistance in my power, by enabling you to judge for yourself ". So saying, I scrambled up the bank at the imminent risk of my neck; and after bursting the button-holes of my straps, and tearing my coat in two places with a bramble, I succeeded in gathering the heath.

Elated by my success, and feeling every nerve braced and invigorated by the frosty air, I bounded down the slope with such velocity, that, on reaching the bottom, I was unable to check my speed, and only avoided running against Miss Saville, by nearly throwing myself down backwards.

"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed I; "I hope I have not alarmed you by my abominable awkwardness; but really the bank was so steep, that it was impossible to stop sooner."

"Nay, it is I who ought to apologise for having led you to undertake such a dangerous expedition," replied she, taking the heath which I had gathered, with a smile which quite repaid me for my exertions.

"I do not know what could have possessed me to run down the bank in that insane manner," returned I; "I suppose it is this fine frosty morning which makes one feel so light and happy."

"Happy!" repeated my companion incredulously, and in a half-absent manner, as though she were rather thinking aloud than addressing me.

~270~~ "Yes," replied I, surprised; "why should I not feel so?"

"Is any one happy?" was the rejoinder.

"Very many people, I hope," said I; "you do not doubt it, surely."

"I well might," she answered with a sigh.

"On such a beautiful day as this, with the bright clear sky above us, and the hoar-frost sparkling like diamonds in the glorious sunshine, how can one avoid feeling happy?" asked I.

"It is very beautiful," she replied, after gazing around for a moment; "and yet can you not imagine a state of mind in which this fair scene, with all its varied charms, may impress one with a feeling of bitterness rather than of pleasure, by the contrast it affords to the darkness and weariness of soul within? Place some famine-stricken wretch beneath the roof of a gilded palace, think you the sight of its magnificence would give him any sensation of pleasure? Would it not rather, by increasing the sense of his own misery, add to his agony of spirit?"

"I can conceive such a case possible," replied I; "but you would make us out to be all famine-stricken wretches at this rate: you cannot surely imagine that every one is unhappy?"

"There are, no doubt, different degrees of unhappiness," returned Miss Saville; "yet I can hardly conceive any position in life so free from cares, as to be pronounced positively happy; but I know my ideas on this subject are peculiar, and I am by no means desirous of making a convert of you, Mr. Fairlegh; the world will do that soon enough, I fear," she added with a sigh.

"I cannot believe it," replied I warmly. "True, at times we must all feel sorrow; it is one of the conditions of our mortal lot, and we must bear it with what resignation we may, knowing that, if we but make a fitting use of it, it is certain to work for our highest good; but if you would have me look upon this world as a vale of tears, forgetting all its glorious opportunities for raising our fallen nature to something so bright and noble, as to be even here but little lower than the angels, you must pardon me if I never can agree with you."

There was a moment's pause, when my companion resumed.

"You talk of opportunities of doing good, as being likely to increase our stock of happiness; and, no doubt, you are right; but imagine a situation, in which you are unable to take advantage of these opportunities when ~271~~ they arise—in which you are not a free agent, your will fettered and controlled on every point, so that you are alike powerless to perform the good that you desire, and to avoid the evil you both hate and fear—could you be happy in such a situation, think you?"

"You describe a case which is, or ought to be, impossible," replied I; "when I say ought to be, I mean that in these days, I hope and believe, it is impossible for any one to be forced to do wrong, unless, from a natural weakness and facility of disposition, and from a want of moral courage, their resistance is so feeble, that those who seek to compel them to evil are induced to redouble their efforts, when a little firmness and decision clearly shown, and steadily adhered to, would have produced a very different result."

"Oh that I could think so!" exclaimed Miss Saville ardently: she paused for a minute, as if in thought, and then resumed in a low mournful voice, "But you do not know—you cannot tell; besides, it is useless to struggle against destiny: there are people fated from childhood to grief and misfortune—alone in this cold world"—she paused, then continued abruptly, "you have a sister?"

"Yes," replied I; "I have as good a little sister as ever man was fortunate enough to possess—how glad I should be to introduce her to you!"

"And you love each other?"

"Indeed we do, truly and sincerely."

"And you are a man, one of the lords of the creation," she continued, with a slight degree of sarcasm in her tone. "Well, Mr. Fairlegh, I can believe that you may be happy sometimes."

"And what ami to conjecture about you?" inquired I, fixing my eyes upon her expressive features.

"What you please," returned she, turning away with a very becoming blush—"or rather," she added, "do not waste your time in forming any conjectures whatever on such an uninteresting subject."

"I am more easily interested than you imagine," replied I, with a smile; "besides, you know I am fond of studying character."

"The riddle is not worth reading," answered Miss Saville.

"Nevertheless, I shall not be contented till I have found it out; I shall guess it before long, depend upon it," returned I.

An incredulous shake of the head was her only reply, and we continued conversing on indifferent subjects till we reached Elm Lodge.~272~~



CHAPTER XXXV — A MYSTERIOUS LETTER

"Good company's a chess-board—there are kings, Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns. The world's a game." Byron.

"My soul hath felt a secret weight, A warning of approaching fate." Rokeby.

"Oh! lady, weep no more; lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man." Shakspeare.

THE next few days passed like a happy dream. Our little party remained the same, no tidings being heard of any of the absentees, save a note from Freddy, saying how much he was annoyed at being detained in town, and begging me to await his return at Elm Lodge, or he would never forgive me. Mrs. Coleman's sprain, though not very severe, was yet sufficient to confine her to her own room till after breakfast, and to a sofa in the boudoir during the rest of the day; and, as a necessary consequence, Miss Saville and I were chiefly dependent on each other for society and amusement. We walked together, read Italian (Petrarch too, of all the authors we could have chosen, to beguile us with his picturesque and glowing love conceits), played chess, and, in short, tried in turn the usual expedients for killing time in a country-house, and found them all very "pretty pastimes" indeed. As the young lady's shyness wore off, and by degrees she allowed the various excellent qualities of her head and heart to appear, I recalled Lucy Markham's assertion, that "she was as good and amiable as she was pretty," and acknowledged that she had only done her justice. Still, although her manner was generally lively and animated, and at times even gay, I could perceive that her mind was not at ease; and whenever she was silent, and her features were in repose, they were marked by an expression of hopeless dejection which it grieved me to behold. If at such moments she perceived any one was observing her, she would rouse herself with a sudden start, and join in the conversation with a degree of wild vehemence and strange, unnatural gaiety, which to me had in it something shocking. Latterly, however, as we became better acquainted, and felt more at ease in ~273~~ each other's society, these wild bursts of spirits grew less frequent, or altogether disappeared, and she would meet my glance with a calm melancholy smile, which seemed to say, "I am not afraid to trust you with the knowledge that I am unhappy—you will not betray me". Yet, though she seemed to find pleasure in discussing subjects which afforded opportunity for expressing the morbid and desponding views she held of life, she never allowed the conversation to take a personal turn, always skilfully avoiding the possibility of her words being applied to her own case: any attempt to do so invariably rendering her silent, or eliciting from her some gay piquant remark, which served her purpose still better.

And how were my feelings getting on all this time? Was I falling in love with this wayward, incomprehensible, but deeply interesting girl, into whose constant society circumstances had, as it were, forced me? Reader, this was a question which I most carefully abstained from asking myself. I knew that I was exceedingly happy; and, as I wished to continue so, I steadily forbore to analyse the ingredients of this happiness too closely, perhaps from a secret consciousness, that, were I to do so, I might discover certain awkward truths, which would prove it to be my duty to tear myself away from the scene of fascination ere it was too late. So I told myself that I was bound by my promise to Coleman to remain at Elm Lodge till my mother and sister should return home, or, at all events, till he himself came back: this being the case, I was compelled by all the rules of good-breeding to be civil and attentive to Miss Saville (yes, civil and attentive—I repeated the words over two or three times; they were nice, quiet, cool sort of words, and suited the view I was anxious to take of the case particularly well). Besides, I might be of some use to her, poor girl, by combating her strange, melancholy, half-fatalist opinions; at all events, it was my duty to try, decidedly my duty (I said that also several times); and, as to my feeling such a deep interest about her, and thinking of her continually, why there was nothing else to think about at Elm Lodge—so that was easily accounted for. All this, and a good deal more of the same nature, did I tell myself; and, if I did not implicitly believe it, I was much too polite to think of giving myself the lie, and so I continued walking, talking, reading Petrarch, and playing chess with Miss Saville all day, and dreaming of her all night, and being very happy indeed.

~274~~ Oh! it's a dangerous game, by the way, that game of chess, with its gallant young knights, clever fellows, up to all sorts of deep moves, who are perpetually laying siege to queens, keeping them in check, threatening them with the bishop, and, with his assistance, mating at last; and much too nearly does it resemble the game of life to be played safely with a pair of bright eyes talking to you from the other side of the board, and two coral lips—mute, indeed, but in their very silence discoursing such "sweet music" to your heart, that the silly thing, dancing with delight, seems as if it meant to leap out of your breast; and it is not mere seeming either—for hearts have been altogether lost in this way before now. Oh! it's a dangerous game, that game of chess. But to return to my tale.

About a week after the expedition to Mrs. Muddles's had taken place, Freddy and his father returned, just in time for dinner. As I was dressing for that meal Coleman came into my room, anxious to learn "how the young lady had conducted herself" during his absence; whether I had taken any unfair advantage, or acted honourably, and with a due regard to his interest, with sundry other jocose queries, all of which appeared to me exceedingly impertinent, and particularly disagreeable, and inspired me with a strong inclination to take him by the shoulders and march him out of the room; instead, however, of doing so, I endeavoured to look amiable, and answer his inquiries in the same light tone in which they were made, and I so far succeeded as to render the amount of information he obtained exceedingly minute. The dinner passed off heavily; Miss Saville was unusually silent, and all Freddy's sallies failed to draw her out. Mr. Coleman was very pompous, and so distressingly polite, that everything like sociability was out of the question. When the ladies left us, matters did not improve; Freddy, finding the atmosphere ungenial to jokes, devoted himself to cracking walnuts by original methods which invariably failed, and attempting to torture into impossible shapes oranges which, when finished, were much too sour for any one to eat; while his father, after having solemnly, and at separate intervals, begged me to partake of every article of the dessert twice over, commenced an harangue, in which he set forth the extreme caution and reserve he considered it right and advisable for young gentlemen to exercise in their intercourse with young ladies, towards whom he declared they should maintain a staid deportment of dignified ~275~~ courtesy, tempered by distant but respectful attentions. This, repeated with variations, lasted us till the tea was announced, and we returned to the drawing-room. Here Freddy made a desperate and final struggle to remove the wet blanket which appeared to have extinguished the life and spirit of the party, but in vain; it had evidently set in for a dull evening, and the clouds were not to be dispelled by any efforts of his;—nothing, therefore, remained for him but to tease the cat, and worry and confuse his mother, to which occupations he applied himself with a degree of diligence worthy a better object. During a fearful commotion consequent upon the discovery of the cat's nose in the cream-jug, into the commission of which delinquency Freddy had contrived to inveigle that amiable quadruped by a series of treacherous caresses, I could not help remarking to Miss Saville (next to whom I happened to be seated) the contrast between this evening and those which we had lately spent together.

"Ah! yes," she replied, in a half-absent manner, "I knew they were too happy to last;" then seeing, from the flush of joy which I felt rise to my brow, though I would have given worlds to repress it, that I had put a wrong construction on her words, or, as my heart would fain have me believe, that she had unconsciously admitted more than she intended, she added hastily, "What I mean to say is, that the perfect freedom from restraint, and the entire liberty to—to follow one's own pursuits, are pleasures to which I am so little accustomed, that I have enjoyed them more than I was perhaps aware of while they lasted".

"You are out of spirits this evening. I hope nothing has occurred to annoy you?" inquired I.

"Do you believe in presentiments?" was the rejoinder.

"I cannot say I do," returned I; "I take them to be little else than the creations of our own morbid fancies, and attribute them in great measure to physical causes."

"But why do they come true, then?" she inquired. "I must answer your question by another," I replied, "and ask whether, except now and then by accident, they do come true?"

"I think so," returned Miss Saville, "at least I can only judge as one usually does, more or less, in every case, by one's own experience,—my presentiments always appear to come true; would it were not so! for they are generally of a gloomy nature."

"Even yet," replied I, "I doubt whether you do not ~276~~ unconsciously deceive yourself, and I think I can tell you the reason; you remember the times when your presentiments have come to pass, because you considered such coincidences remarkable, and they made a strong impression on your mind, while you forget the innumerable gloomy forebodings which have never been fulfilled, the accomplishment being the thing which fixes itself on your memory—is not this the case?"

"It may be so," she answered, "and yet I know not—even now there is a weight here," and she pressed her hand to her brow as she spoke, "a vague, dull feeling of dread, a sensation of coming evil, which tells me some misfortune is at hand, some crisis of my fate approaching. I daresay you consider all this very silly and romantic, Mr. Fairlegh; but if you knew how everything I have most feared, most sought to avoid, has invariably been forced upon me, you would make allowance for me—you would pity me."

What answer I should have made to this appeal, had not Fate interposed in the person of old Mr. Coleman (who seated himself on the other side of Miss Saville, and began talking about the state of the roads), it is impossible to say. As it was my only reply was by a glance, which, if it failed to convince her that I pitied her with a depth and intensity which approached alarmingly near the kindred emotion, love, must have been singularly inexpressive. And the evening came to an end, as all evenings, however long, are sure to do at last; and in due course I went to bed, but not to sleep, for Clara Saville and her forebodings ran riot in my brain, and effectually banished the "soft restorer," till such time as that early egotist the cock began singing his own praises to his numerous wives, when I fell into a doze, with a strong idea that I had got a presentiment myself, though of what nature, or when the event (if event it was) was likely to "come off," I had not the most distant notion.

The post-bag arrived while we were at breakfast the next morning; and it so happened that I was the only one of the party for whom it did not contain a letter. Having nothing, therefore, to occupy my attention, and being seated exactly opposite Clara Saville, I could scarcely fail to observe the effect produced by one which Mr. Coleman had handed to her. When her eye first fell on the writing she gave a slight start, and a flush (I could not decide whether of pleasure or anger) mounted to her brow. As she perused the contents she grew deadly pale, and I feared she was about to faint: recovering herself, ~277~~ however, by a strong effort, she read steadily to the end, quietly refolded the letter, and, placing it in a pocket in her dress, apparently resumed her breakfast—I say apparently, for I noticed that, although she busied herself with what was on her plate, it remained untasted, and she took the earliest opportunity, as soon as the meal was concluded, of leaving the room.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to excuse me till after lunch, old fellow," said Coleman, "you see we're so dreadfully busy just now with this confounded suit I went down to Bury about—'Bowler versus Stumps'; but if you can amuse yourself till two o'clock we'll go and have a jolly good walk to shake up an appetite for dinner."

"The very thing," replied I; "I have a letter to Harry Oaklands which has been on the stocks for the last four days, and which I particularly wish to finish, and then I'm your man, for a ten-mile trot if you like it."

"So be it, then," said Freddy, leaving the room as he spoke.

As soon as he was gone, instead of fetching my half-written epistle I flung myself into an arm-chair, and devoted myself to the profitable employment of conjecturing the possible cause of Clara Saville's strange agitation on receiving that letter. Who could it be from?—perhaps her guardian;—but if so, why should she have given a start of surprise?—nothing could have been more natural or probable than that he should write and say when she might expect him home—she could not have felt surprise at the sight of his handwriting—but if not from him, from whom could it come? She had told me that she had no near relations, no intimate friend. A lover perchance—well, and if it were so, what was that to me?—nothing—oh yes! decidedly nothing—a favoured lover of course, else why the emotion?—was this also nothing?—yes, I said it was, and I tried to think so too: yet, viewing the matter so philosophically, it was rather inconsistent to spring from my seat as if an adder had stung me, and begin striding up and down the room as though I were walking for a wager. In the course of my rapid promenade, my coat-tail brushed against and nearly knocked down an inkstand, to which incident I was indebted for the recollection of my unfinished letter to Oaklands, and, my own thoughts being at that moment no over-pleasant companions, I was glad of any excuse to get rid of them. On looking about for my writing-case, however, I remembered that, when last I made use of it, we were sitting in the boudoir, and that there it had ~278~~ probably remained ever since; accordingly, without further waste of time, I ran upstairs to look for it.

As good Mrs. Coleman (although she most indignantly repelled the accusation) was sometimes accustomed to indulge her propensity for napping even in a morning, I opened the door of the boudoir, and closed it again after me as noiselessly as possible. My precautions, however, did not seem to have been necessary, for at first sight the room appeared untenanted; but as I turned to look for my writing-case a stifled sob met my ear, and a closer inspection enabled me to perceive the form of Clara Saville, with her face buried in the cushions, half-sitting, half-reclining on the sofa, while so silently had I effected my entrance that as yet she was not aware of my approach. My first impulse was to withdraw and leave her undisturbed, but unluckily a slight noise which I made in endeavouring to do so attracted her attention, and she started up in alarm, regarding me with a wild, half-frightened gaze, as if she scarcely recognised me.

"I beg your pardon," I began hastily, "I am afraid I have disturbed you—I came to fetch—that is to look for—my—" and here I stopped short, for to my surprise and consternation Miss Saville, after making a strong but ineffectual effort to regain her composure, sank back upon the sofa, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a violent flood of tears. I can scarcely conceive a situation more painful, or in which it would be more difficult to know how to act, than the one in which I now found myself. The sight of a woman's tears must always produce a powerful effect upon a man of any feeling, leading him to wish to comfort and assist her to the utmost of his ability; but, if the fair weeper be one in whose welfare you take the deepest interest, and yet with whom you are not on terms of sufficient intimacy to entitle you to offer the consolation your heart would dictate, the position becomes doubly embarrassing. For my part, so overcome was I by a perfect chaos of emotions, that I remained for some moments like one thunder-stricken, while she continued to sob as though her heart were breaking. At length I could stand it no longer, and scarcely knowing what I was going to say or do, I placed myself on the sofa beside her, and taking one of her hands, which now hung listlessly down, in my own, I exclaimed:—

"Miss Saville—Clara—dear Clara! I cannot bear to see you so unhappy, it makes me miserable to look at you—tell me, what can I do to help you—to comfort you—something must be possible—you have no brother—let ~279~~ me be one to you—tell me why you are so wretched—and oh! do not cry so bitterly!"

When I first addressed her she started slightly, and attempted to withdraw her hand, but as I proceeded she allowed it to remain quietly in mine, and though she still continued to weep, her tears fell more softly, and she no longer sobbed in such a distressing manner. Glad to find that I had in some measure succeeded in calming her, I renewed my attempts at consolation, and again implored her to tell me the cause of her unhappiness. Still for some moments she was unable to speak, but at length making an effort to recover herself she withdrew her hand, and stroking back her glossy hair, which had fallen over her forehead, said:—

"This is very weak—very foolish. I do not often give way in this manner, but it came upon me so suddenly—so unexpectedly; and now, Mr. Fairlegh, pray leave me; I shall ever feel grateful to you for your sympathy, for your offers of assistance, and for all the trouble you have kindly taken about such a strange, wayward girl, as I am sure you must consider me," she added, with a faint smile.

"So you will not allow me to be of use to you," returned I sorrowfully, "you do not think me worthy of your confidence."

"Indeed it is not so," she replied earnestly; "there is no one of whose judgment I think more highly; no one of whose assistance I would more gladly avail myself; on whose honour I would more willingly rely; but it is utterly impossible to help me. Indeed," she added, seeing me still look incredulous, "I am telling you what I believe to be the exact and simple truth."

"Will you promise me that, if at any time you should find that I could be of use to you, you will apply to me as you would to a brother, trusting me sufficiently to believe that I shall not act hastily, or in any way which could in the slightest degree compromise or annoy you? Will you promise me this?"

"I will," she replied, raising her eyes to my face for an instant with that sweet, trustful expression which I had before noticed, "though I suppose such prudent people as Mr. Coleman," she added with a slight smile, "would consider me to blame for so doing; and were I like other girls—had I a mother's affection to watch over me—a father's care to shield me, they might be right; but situated as I am, having none to care for me—nothing to rely on save my own weak heart and unassisted judgment—while those who should guide and protect me ~280~~ appear only too ready to avail themselves of my helplessness and inexperience—I cannot afford to lose so true a friend, or believe it to be my duty to reject your disinterested kindness."

A pause ensued, during which I arrived at two conclusions—first, that my kindness was not altogether so disinterested as she imagined; and secondly, that if I sat where I was much longer, and she continued to talk about there being nobody who cared for her, I should inevitably feel myself called upon to undeceive her, and, as a necessary consequence, implore her to accept my heart and share my patrimony—the latter, deducting my sister's allowance and my mother's jointure, amounting to the imposing sum of L90 14s. 6d. per annum, which, although sufficient to furnish a bachelor with bread and cheese and broad-cloth, was not exactly calculated to afford an income for "persons about to marry". Accordingly, putting a strong force upon my inclinations, and by a desperate effort screwing my virtue to the sticking point, I made a pretty speech, clenching, and thanking her for her promise of applying to me to help her out of the first hopelessly inextricable dilemma in which she might find herself involved, and rose with the full intention of leaving the room.



CHAPTER XXXVI — THE RIDDLE SOLVED

"Think'st thou there's virtue in constrained vows, Half utter'd, soulless, falter'd forth in fear? And if there is, then truth and grace are nought." Sheridan Knowles.

"For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, It is no contract—none." Shakspeare.

"Who hath not felt that breath in the air, A perfume and freshness strange and rare, A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere, When young hearts yearn together? All sweets below, and all sunny above, Oh! there's nothing in life like making Love, Save making hay in fine weather! Hood.

UPON what trifles do the most important events of our lives turn! Had I quitted the room according to my intention, I should not have had an opportunity of seeing Miss Saville alone again (as she returned to Barstone ~281~~ that afternoon), in which case she would probably have forgotten, or felt afraid to avail herself of my promised assistance, all communication between us would have ceased, and the deep interest I felt in her, having nothing wherewith to sustain itself, would, as years passed by, have died a natural death.

Good resolutions are, however, proverbially fragile, and, in nine cases out of ten, appear made, like children's toys, only to be broken. Certain it is, that in the present instance mine were rendered of none avail, and, for any good effect that they produced, might as well never have been formed.

As I got up to leave the room Miss Saville rose likewise, and in doing so accidentally dropped a, or rather the, letter, which I picked up, and was about to return to her, when suddenly my eye fell upon the direction, and I started as I recognised the writing—a second glance served to convince me that I had not been mistaken, for the hand was a very peculiar one; and, turning to my astonished companion, I exclaimed, "Clara, as you would avoid a life of misery, tell me by what right this man dares to address you!"



"What! do you know him, then?" she inquired anxiously.

"If he be the man I mean," was my answer, "I know him but too well, and he is the only human being I both dislike and despise. Was not that letter written by Richard Cumberland?"

"Yes, that is his hateful name," she replied, shuddering while she spoke, as at the aspect of some loathsome thing; then, suddenly changing her tone to one of the most passionate entreaty, she clasped her hands, and advancing a step towards me, exclaimed:—

"Oh! Mr. Fairlegh, only save me from him, and I will bless you, will pray for you!" and completely overcome by her emotion, she sank backwards, and would have fallen had not I prevented it.

There is a peculiar state of feeling which a man sometimes experiences when he has bravely resisted some hydra-headed temptation to do anything "pleasant but wrong," yet which circumstances appear determined to force upon him: he struggles against it boldly at first; but, as each victory serves only to lessen his own strength, while that of the enemy continues unimpaired, he begins to tell himself that it is useless to contend longer—that the monster is too strong for him, and he yields at last, from a mixed feeling of fatalism and irritation—a sort of ~282~~ "have-it-your-own-way-then" frame of mind, which seeks to relieve itself from all responsibility by throwing the burden on things in general—the weakness of human nature—the force of circumstances—or any other indefinite and conventional scapegoat, which may serve his purpose of self-exculpation.

In much such a condition did I now find myself; I felt that I was regularly conquered—completely taken by storm—and that nothing was left for me but to yield to my destiny with the best grace I could. I therefore seated myself by Miss Saville on the sofa, and whispered, "You must promise me one thing more, Clara, dearest—say that you will love me—give me but that right to watch over you—to protect you, and believe me neither Cumberland, nor any other villain, shall dare for the future to molest you".

As she made no answer, but remained with her eyes fixed on the ground, while the tears stole slowly down her cheeks, I continued—"You own that you are unhappy—that you have none to love you—none on whom you can rely;—do not then reject the tender, the devoted affection of one who would live but to protect you from the slightest breath of sorrow—would gladly die, if, by so doing, he could secure your happiness".

"Oh! hush, hush!" she replied, starting, as if for the first time aware of the tenor of my words; "you know not what you ask; or even you, kind, noble, generous as you are, would not seek to link your fate with one so utterly wretched, so marked out for misfortune as myself. Stay," she continued, seeing that I was about to speak, "hear me out. Richard Cumberland, the man whom you despise, and whom I hate only less than I fear, that man have I promised to marry, and, ere this, he is on his road hither to claim the fulfilment of the engagement."

"Promised to marry Cumberland!" repeated I mechanically, "a low, dissipated swindler—a common cheat, for I can call him nothing better; oh, it's impossible!—why, Mr. Vernor, your guardian, would never permit it."

"My guardian!" she replied, in a tone of the most cutting irony: "were it not for him this engagement would never have been formed; were it not for him I should even now hope to find some means of prevailing upon this man to relinquish it, and set me free. Richard Cumberland is Mr. Vernor's nephew, and the dearest wish of his heart is to see us united."

"He never shall see it while I live to prevent it!" ~283~~ replied I, springing to my feet, and pacing the room with angry strides.

"Oh, it was all plain to me now! when I had fancied her guardian's features were not unfamiliar to me, it was his likeness to Cumberland which had deceived me; his rudeness on the night of the ball; the strange dislike he appeared to feel towards me;—all was now accounted for. His opinion of me, formed from Cumberland's report, was not likely to be a very favourable one; and this precious uncle and nephew were linked in a scheme to destroy the happiness of the sweetest girl living, the brightness of whose young spirit was already darkened by the shade of their vile machinations: but they had not as yet succeeded; and if the most strenuous and unceasing exertions on my part could serve to prevent it, I inwardly vowed they never should. Let Master Richard Cumberland look to himself; I had foiled him once, and it would go hard with me but I would do so again."

Having half thought, half uttered the foregoing resolutions, I once more turned towards Miss Saville, who sat watching me with looks of interest and surprise, and said: "This is a most strange and unexpected affair; but remember, dear Clara, you have appealed to me to save you from Cumberland, and, to enable me to do so, you must tell me exactly how matters stand between you, and, above all, how and why you were induced to enter into this engagement, for I hope—I think—I am right in supposing—that affection for him had nothing to do with it".

"Affection!" she replied, in a tone of voice which, if any doubts still lingered in my mind, effectually dispelled them; "have I not already said that I hate this man as, I fear, it is sinful to hate any human being? I disliked and dreaded him when we were boy and girl together, and these feelings have gone on increasing year by year, till my aversion to him has become one of the most deeply-rooted instincts of my nature."

"And yet you allowed yourself to be engaged to him?" inquired I. "How could this have been brought about?"

"You may well ask," was the reply; "it was folly; it was weakness; but I was very young—a mere child in fact; and they made me believe that it was my duty; then I hoped, I felt sure that I should die before the time arrived to fulfil the engagement; I fancied it was impossible to be so miserable, and yet to live: but Death is very cruel—he will not come to those who pine for him."

~284~~ "Clara," interrupted I, "I cannot bear to hear you say such things; it is not right to give way to these feelings of despair."

"Is it wrong for the unhappy to wish to die?" she asked, with a calm child-like simplicity which was most touching. "I suppose it is," she continued, "for I have prayed for death so often, that God would have granted my prayer if it had been a right one. When I closed my eyes last night, oh! how I hoped—how I longed—never to open them again in this miserable world—for I felt that evil was at hand: you laughed at my presentiment: it has come true, you see."

"Believe me, you do wrong in giving way to these despairing thoughts—in encouraging these morbid fancies," returned I. "But time presses; will you not tell me the particulars of this unhappy engagement, that I may see how far you stand committed to this scoundrel Cumberland, and decide what is best to be done for the future?"

"It is a long story," she replied; "but I will tell it you as shortly as I can."

She then proceeded to inform me, that her mother having died when she was an infant, she had become the idol of her surviving parent, who, inconsolable for the loss of his wife, lavished all his tenderness upon his little girl. She described her childhood as the happiest part of her life, although it must have been happiness of a tranquil nature, differing greatly from the boisterous merriment of children in general; its chief ingredient being the strong affection which existed between her father and herself. The only guest who ever appeared at the Priory (which I now for the first time learned had been the property of Sir Henry Saville) was his early friend, Mr. Vernor, who used periodically to visit them, an event to which she always looked forward with pleasure, not so much on account of the presents and caresses he bestowed on herself, as that his society appeared to amuse and interest her father. On one of these occasions, when she was about nine years of age, Mr. Vernor was accompanied by a lad some years older than herself, whom he introduced as his nephew. During his visit, the boy, who appeared gifted with tact and cunning beyond his years, contrived so much to ingratiate himself with Sir Henry Saville, that before he left the Priory, his host, who had himself served with distinction in the Peninsula, expressed his readiness to send him, on attaining a fit age, to one of the military colleges, promising to use his interest at the Horse Guards to procure a commission for him. These 285~ kind intentions, however, were fated not to be carried out. An old wound which Sir Henry had received at Vimiera broke out afresh, occasioning the rupture of a vessel on the lungs, and in the course of a few hours Clara was left fatherless. On examining the private papers of the deceased, it appeared that Mr. Vernor was constituted sole executor, trustee for the property, and guardian to the young lady. In these various capacities he immediately took up his residence at Barstone, and assumed the direction of everything. And now for the first time did his true character appear—sullen and morose in temper, stern and inflexible in disposition, cold and reserved in manner, implacable when offended, requiring implicit obedience to his commands; he seemed calculated to inspire fear instead of love, aversion rather than esteem. The only sign of feeling he ever showed was in his behaviour towards Richard Cumberland, for whom he evidently entertained a strong affection. The idea of a military career having been abandoned at Sir Henry Saville's death, much of his time was now spent at the Priory. Although he was apparently fond of his little companion, and endeavoured on every occasion to render himself agreeable to her, all his habitual cunning could not conceal from her his vile temper, or the unscrupulous means of which he was always willing to avail himself in order to attain his own ends. He had been away from the Priory on one occasion more than a year, when he suddenly returned with his uncle, who had been in town on business. He appeared sullen and uncomfortable, and she imagined that they must have had a quarrel. She was at that time nearly fifteen, and the marked devotion which Cumberland (who during his absence had greatly improved both in manner and appearance) now paid her, flattered and pleased her; and, partly for this reason, partly because she had already learned to dread his outbreaks of temper, and was unwilling to do anything which might provoke one of them, she allowed him to continue his attentions unrepulsed. This went on for some weeks, and her old dislike was beginning to return as she saw more of her companion, when one morning Mr. Vernor called her into his study, and informed her that he considered she had arrived at an age when it was right that she should become aware of the arrangements he had made for her, in accordance with the wishes of her late father. He then showed her a letter in Sir Henry Saville's handwriting, dated only a few weeks before his death, part of which was to the following effect; "You urge ~286~~ the fact of your nephew's residing with you as an objection to my scheme for your living at Barstone, and assuming the guardianship of my daughter, in the event (which, if I may trust my own sensations, is not very far distant) of her being left an orphan. From what I have seen of the boy, as well as on the score of our old friendship, my dear Vemor, that which you view as an objection, I consider but an additional reason why the arrangement should take place. A marriage with your nephew would ensure my child (who as my sole heiress will be possessed of considerable wealth) from that worst of all fates, falling a prey to some needy fortune-hunter; and, should such a union ever be contemplated, let me beg of you to remember, and to impress upon Clara herself, that had I lived it would have met with my warmest approbation."

Having shown her this letter, Mr. Vemor went on to say that he had noticed with pleasure Richard's growing attachment, and the marked encouragement she had given him, and that, although they were too young to think of marrying for some years, and, as a general principle, he was averse to long engagements, yet, under the peculiar circumstances in which they were placed, he had yielded to his nephew's importunity, and determined not only to lay his offer before her, but to allow her to accept it at once, if (as from her manner he could scarcely be mistaken in supposing) her inclinations were in accordance with his.

Taken completely by surprise at this announcement, overpowered by the idea that by the encouragement she had given Cumberland she had irretrievably committed herself—strongly affected by her father's letter—having no one to advise her, what wonder that the persuasions of the nephew, backed by the authority of the uncle, prevailed over her youth and inexperience, and that the matter ended in her allowing herself to be formally engaged to Richard Cumberland.

Little more remained for her to tell; reckoning that he had gained his point, Cumberland became less careful in concealing the evil of his disposition, and her dislike to him and fear of him increased every day. At length this became evident to Mr. Vemor, but it appeared only to render him still more determined to bring about the match; and when once, nearly a twelvemonth before, she had implored him to allow her to break off the engagement, he had exhibited so much violence, declaring that he possessed the power of rendering her a beggar, and even threatening to turn her out of doors, that she had never dared to recur to the ~287~~subject. For many months, however, she had seen nothing of her persecutor, and she had almost begun to hope that something had rendered him averse to the match, when all her fears were again aroused by a hint which Mr. Vemor had thrown out as he took leave of her at Mrs. Coleman's, desiring her to exercise great circumspection in her behaviour, and to recollect that she was under a solemn engagement, which she might before long be called upon to fulfil. The letter from Cumberland, she added, spoke of his immediate return to claim her hand, and a few lines from Mr. Vemor ordered her to await their arrival at Barstone.

"And now," she continued, looking up with that calm hopeless smile which was so painful to behold, "have I not cause to be unhappy, and was I not right in telling you that no one could be of any assistance to me, or afford me help?"

"No!" replied I warmly; "I trust and believe that much may be done—nay, everything; but you are unequal to contend with these men alone; only allow me to hope that my affection is not utterly distasteful to you. Would you but give me that right to interfere in your behalf!"

"This is ungenerous—unlike yourself," she interrupted. "Have you already forgotten that I am the promised bride of Richard Cumberland? Were I free, indeed——"

"Oh! why do you pause?" exclaimed I passionately. "Clara, hear me—you deem it ungenerous in me to urge my suit upon you at this moment—perhaps think that I would take advantage of the difficulties which surround you, to induce you to promise me your hand as the price of my assistance. It is true that I love you deeply, devotedly, and the happiness of my whole life is centred in the hope of one day calling you my own; but I would use my utmost endeavours to save you from Cumberland, even though I knew that by so doing I forfeited all chance of ever seeing you again. Tell me, would you wish this to be so—am I to believe that you dislike me?"

As she made no reply, merely blushing deeply, and casting down her eyes, I ventured to continue: "Clara, dearest Clara, do you then love me?"

Well, reader, I think I've told you quite as much about it as you have any business to know. Of course she did not say she loved me—women never do upon such occasions; but I was just as well contented as it was. Mendelssohn has composed songs without words (Lieder ohne Worte), which tell their own tale very prettily, and there have been many eloquent speeches made on a like silent system. ~288~~ Suffice it to add, that the next ten minutes formed such a nice, bright, sunshiny little piece of existence as might deserve to be cut out of the book of time, and framed, glazed, and hung up for the inspection of all true lovers; whilst no match-making mamma, fortune-hunting younger brother, or girl of business on the look-out for a good establishment, should be allowed a glimpse of it at any price.



CHAPTER XXXVII — THE FORLORN HOPE

"—Cumberland seeks thy hand; His shall it be—nay, no reply; Hence till those rebel eyes be dry." The Lord of the Isles.

FREDDY COLEMAN was cheated of his walk that afternoon; for an old maiden lady in the neighbourhood, having read in a Sunday paper that the plague was raging with great fury at Constantinople, thought it as well to be prepared for the worst, and summoned Mr. Coleman to receive directions about making her will—and he, being particularly engaged, sent Freddy in his stead, who set out on the mission in a state of comic ill-humour, which bid fair to render Mrs. Aikinside's will a very original document indeed, and foreboded for that good old lady herself an unprecedented and distracting afternoon.

I had assisted Mr. Coleman in conducting Clara Saville to the carriage which arrived to convey her to Barstone, and had received a kind glance and a slight pressure of the hand in return, which I would not have exchanged for the smiles of an empress, when, anxious to be alone with my own thoughts, I started off for a solitary walk, nor did I relax my pace till I had left all traces of human habitation far behind me, and green fields and leafless hedges were my only companions. I then endeavoured in some measure to collect my scattered thoughts, and to reflect calmly on the position in which I had placed myself, by the avowal the unexpected events of the morning had hurried me into. But so much was I excited, that calm reflection appeared next to impossible. Feeling—flushed with the victory it had obtained over its old antagonist, Reason—seemed, in every sense of the word, to have gained the day, and, despite all the ~289~~ difficulties that lay before me—difficulties which I knew must appear all but insurmountable, whenever I should venture to look them steadily in the face—the one idea that Clara Saville loved me was ever present with me, and rendered me supremely happy.

The condition of loving another better than one's self, conventionally termed being "in love," is, to say the least, a very doubtful kind of happiness; and poets have therefore, with great propriety, described it as "pleasing pain," "delicious misery," and in many other terms of a like contradictory character; nor is it possible that this should be otherwise: love is a passion, wayward and impetuous in its very nature—agitating and disquieting in its effects, rendering its votary the slave of circumstances—a mere shuttlecock alternating between the extremes of hope and fear, joy and sorrow, confidence and mistrust—a thing which a smile can exalt to the highest pinnacle of delight, or a frown strike down to the depths of despair. But in the consciousness that we are beloved, there is none of this questionable excitement; on the contrary, we experience a sensation of deep calm joy, as we reflect that in the true affection thus bestowed on us we have gained a possession which the cares and struggles of life are powerless to injure, and which death itself, though it may interrupt for awhile, will fail to destroy. These thoughts, or something like them, having entrenched themselves in the stronghold of my imagination, for some time held their ground gallantly against the attacks of common sense; but at length, repulsed on every point, they deemed it advisable to capitulate, or (to drop metaphor, a style of writing I particularly abominate, perhaps because I never more than half understand what it means) in plain English, I, with a sort of grimace, such as one makes before swallowing a dose of physic, set myself seriously to work to reflect upon my present position, and decide on the best line of conduct to be pursued for the future.

Before our conference came to an end, I had made Clara acquainted with my knowledge of Cumberland's former delinquencies, as well as the reputation in which he was now held by such of his associates as had any pretension to the title of gentlemen, and added my conviction, that, when once these facts were placed before Mr. Vernor, he must see that he could not, consistently with his duty as guardian, allow his ward to marry a man of such character. Cumberland had no doubt contrived to keep his uncle in ignorance of his mode of life, ~290~~ and it would only be necessary to enlighten him on that point to ensure his consent to her breaking off the engagement. Clara appeared less sanguine of success, even hinting at the possibility of Mr. Vernor's being as well informed in regard to his nephew's real character as we were; adding, that his mind was too firmly set on the match for him to give it up lightly. It was finally agreed between us, that she was to let me know how affairs went on after Mr. Vernor's return, and, in the meantime, I was to give the matter my serious consideration, and decide on the best course for us to follow. The only person in the establishment whom she could thoroughly trust was the extraordinary old footman (the subject of Lawless's little bit of diplomacy), who had served under her father in the Peninsula, and accompanied him home in the character of confidential servant. He had consequently known Clara from a child, and was strongly-attached to her, so that she had learned to regard him more in the light of a friend than a servant. Through this somewhat original substitute for a confidant, we arranged to communicate with each other.

As to my own line of conduct, I very soon decided on that. I would only await a communication from Clara to assure me that Mr. Vernor's determination with regard to her remained unchanged, ere I would seek an interview with him, enlighten him as to Cumberland's true character, acquaint him with Clara's aversion to the match, and induce him to allow of its being broken off. I should then tell him of my own affection for her, and of my intention of coming forward to demand her hand, as soon as, by my professional exertions, I should have realised a sufficient independence to enable me to marry. As to Clara's fortune, if fortune she had, she might build a church, endow an hospital, or buy herself bonnet ribbons with it, as she pleased, for not a farthing of it would I ever touch on any consideration. No one should be able to say, that it was for the sake of her money I sought to win her.

Well, all this was very simple, straightforward work;—where, then, were the difficulties which had alarmed me so greatly? Let me see—Mr. Vernor might choose to fancy that it would take some years to add to the L90 14s. 6Ld. sufficiently to enable me to support a wife, and might disapprove of his ward's engaging herself to me on that account. What if he did? I wished for no engagement—let her remain free as air—her own true affection would stand my friend, and on that I could rely, ~291~~ content, if it failed me, to—to—well, it did not signify what I might do in an emergency which never could arise. No! only let him promise not to force her inclinations—to give up his monstrous project of wedding her to Cumberland—and to leave her free to bestow her hand on whom she would—and I should be perfectly satisfied. But suppose, as Clara seemed to fear, he should refuse to break off the engagement with his nephew—suppose he should forbid mo the house, and, taking advantage of my absence, use his authority to force on this hateful marriage! All that would be extremely disagreeable, and I could not say I exactly saw, at the moment, what means I should be able to employ, effectually to prevent it. Still it was only a remote contingency—an old man like him, with one foot, as you might say, in the grave (he could not have been above sixty, and his constitution, like everything else about him, appeared of cast-iron), must have some conscience, must pay some little regard to right and wrong: it would only be necessary to open his eyes to the enormity of wedding beauty and innocence such as Clara's to a scoundrel like Cumberland—aman destitute of every honourable feeling—oh! he must see that the thing was impossible, and, as the thought passed through my mind, I longed for the moment when I should be confronted with him, and able to tell him so.

And Clara, too! sweet, bewitching, unhappy Clara! what must not she have gone through, ere a mind, naturally buoyant and elastic as hers, could have been crushed into a state of such utter dejection, such calm, spiritless despair! her only wish, to die—her only hope, to find in the grave a place "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest!" But brighter days were in store for her—it should be my ambition to render her married life so happy, that, if possible, the recollection of all she had suffered having passed away, her mind should recover its natural tone, and even her lightness of heart, which the chill atmosphere of unkindness for a time had blighted, should revive again in the warm sunshine of affection.

Thus meditating, I arrived at Elm Lodge in a state of feeling containing about equal parts of the intensely poetical and the very decidedly hungry.

On the second morning after the events I have described, a note was brought to me whilst I was dressing. With trembling fingers I tore open the envelope, and read as follows:—

"I promised to inform you of what occurred on my ~292~~ return here, and I must therefore do so, though what I have to communicate will only give you pain. All that my fears pointed at has come to pass, and my doom appears irrevocably sealed. Late on the evening of my return to Barstone, Mr. Vernor and his nephew arrived. I shall never forget the feeling of agony that shot through my brain, as Richard Cumberland's footstep sounded in the hall, knowing, as I too well did, the purpose with which he was come. I fancied grief had in great measure deadened my feelings, but that moment served to undeceive me—the mixture of horror, aversion, and fear, combined with a sense of utter helplessness and desolation, seemed, as it were, to paralyse me.

"But I know not why I am writing all this. The evening passed off without anything particular taking place. Mr. Cumberland's manner towards me was regulated by the most consummate tact and cunning, allowing the deep interest he pretends to feel in me to appear in every look and action, yet never going far enough to afford me an excuse for repulsing him. This morning, however, I have had an interview with Mr. Vernor, in which I stated my repugnance to the marriage as strongly as possible. He was fearfully irritated, and, at length, on my repeating my refusal, plainly told me that it was useless for me to resist his will—that I was in his power, and, if I continued obstinate, I must be made to feel it. Oh! that man's anger is terrible to witness: it is not that he is so violent—he never seems to lose his self-control—but says the most cutting things in a tone of calm, sarcastic bitterness, which lends double force to all he utters. I feel that it is useless for us to contend against fate: you cannot help me, and would only embroil yourself with these men were you to attempt to do so. I shall ever look back upon the few days we spent together as a bright spot in the dark void of my life—that life which you preserved at the risk of your own. Alas! you little knew the cruel nature of the gift you were bestowing. And now, farewell for ever! That you may find all the happiness your kindness and generosity deserve, is the earnest prayer of one, whom, for her sake, as well as your own, you must strive to forget."

"If I do forget her," exclaimed I, as I pressed the note to my lips, "may I——Well, never mind, I'll go over and have it out with that old brute this very morning, and we'll see if he can frighten me." And so saying, I set to work to finish dressing, in a great state of virtuous indignation. ~293~~ "Freddy," inquired I, when breakfast was at length concluded, "where can I get a horse?"

"Get a horse?" was the reply. "Oh! there are a great many places—it depends upon what kind of horse you want: for race-horses, steeple-chasers, and hunters, I would recommend Tattersall's; for hacks or machiners, there's Aldridge's, in St. Martin's Lane; while Dixon's, in the Barbican, is the place to pick up a fine young carthorse—is it a young cart-horse you want?"

"My dear fellow, don't worry me," returned I, feeling very cross, and trying to look amiable; "you know what I mean; is there anything rideable to be hired in Hilling-ford? I have a call to make which is beyond a walk."

"Let me see," replied Freddy, musing; "you wouldn't like a very little pony, with only one eye and a rat-tail, I suppose—it might look absurd with your long legs, I'm afraid—or else Mrs. Meek, the undertaker's widow, has got a very quiet one that poor Meek used to ride—a child could manage it:—there's the butcher's fat mare, but she won't stir a step without the basket on her back, and it would be so troublesome for you to carry that all the way. Tomkins, the sweep, has got a little horse he'd let you have, I daresay, but it always comes off black on one's trousers: and the miller's cob is just as bad the other way with the flour. I know a donkey—"

"So do I," was the answer, as, laughing in spite of myself, I turned to leave the room.

"Here, stop a minute!" cried Freddy, following me, "you are so dreadfully impetuous; there's nothing morally wrong in being acquainted with a donkey, is there? 1 assure you I did not mean anything personal; and now for a word of sense. Bumpus, at the Green Man, has got a tremendous horse, which nearly frightened me into fits the only time I ever mounted him, so that it will just suit you; nobody but a green man, or a knight-errant, which I consider much the same sort of thing, would patronise such an animal—still, he's the only one I know of."

Coleman's tremendous horse, which proved to be a tall, pig-headed, hard-mouthed brute, with a very decided will of his own, condescended, after sundry skirmishes and one pitched battle, occasioned by his positive refusal to pass a windmill, to go the road I wished, and about an hour's ride brought me to the gate of Barstone Park. So completely had I been hurried on by feeling in every stage of the affair, and so entirely had all minor considerations given way to the paramount object of ~294~~ securing Clara's happiness, with which, as I now felt, my own was indissolubly linked, that it was not until my eye rested on the cold, grey stone of Barstone Priory, and wandered over the straight walks and formal lawns of the garden, that I became fully aware of the extremely awkward and embarrassing nature of the interview I was about to seek. To force myself into the presence of a man more than double my own age, and, from all I had seen or heard of him, one of the last people in the world to take a liberty with, for the purpose of informing hint that his nephew, the only creature on earth that he was supposed to love, was a low swindler, the associate of gamblers and blacklegs, did not appear a line of conduct exactly calculated to induce him, at my request, to give up a scheme on which he had set his heart, or to look with a favourable eye on my pretensions to the hand of his ward. Still, there was no help for it; the happiness of her I loved was at stake, and, had it been to face a fiend instead of a man, I should not have hesitated.

My meditations were here interrupted by a cock-pheasant, which, alarmed at my approach, rose immediately under my horse's nose; an unexpected incident which caused that brute to shy violently, and turn short round, thereby nearly unseating me. Having by this manoeuvre got his head towards home, he not only refused to turn back again, but showed very unmistakable symptoms of a desire to run away. Fortunately, however, since the days of "Mad Bess," my arms had grown considerably stronger, and, by dint of pulling and sawing the creature's apology for a mouth with the bit, I was enabled to frustrate his benevolent intentions, and even succeeded in turning him round again; but here my power ceased—for in the direction of the Priory by no possibility could I induce him to move a step. I whipped and spurred, but in vain; the only result was a series of kicks and plunges, accompanied by a retrograde movement and a shake of the head, as if he were saying, No! I next attempted the soothing system, and lavished sundry caresses and endearing expressions upon him, of which he was utterly undeserving; but my attentions were quite thrown away, and might as well, for any good they produced, have been bestowed upon a rocking-horse. At length, after a final struggle, in which we were both within an ace of falling into a water-course which crossed the park in that direction, I gave the matter up as hopeless; and with a sigh (for I love not to be foiled in anything I have attempted, and, moreover, I could not help looking upon it as an unlucky omen) dismounted, ~285~~ and leading my rebellious steed by the rein, advanced on foot towards the house. As I did so a figure abruptly turned the corner of a shrubbery walk, which ran at right angles to the road, and I found myself face to face with Richard Cumberland!

For a moment he remained staring at me as if he scarcely recognised me, or was unwilling to trust the evidence of his senses, so confounded was he at my unexpected apparition; but as I met his gaze with a cold, stern look, he seemed to doubt no longer and advancing a step towards me said, in a tone of ironical politeness:—"Is it possible that I have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Fairlegh?"

"None other, Mr. Cumberland," returned I, "though I could hardly have flattered myself that my appearance would have recalled any very pleasurable associations, considering the last two occasions on which we met."

"Ah! you refer to that unfortunate affair with Wilford," replied Cumberland, purposely misunderstanding my allusion to Dr. Mildman's. "I had hoped to have been able to prevent the mischief which occurred, but I was misinformed as to the time of the meeting—I trust our friend Oaklands feels no ill effects from his wound."

"Mr. Oaklands, I am sorry to say, recovers but slowly; the wound was a very severe one," returned I coldly. "Well, I will not detain you any longer, it is a lovely morning for a ride," resumed Cumberland; "can I be of any assistance in directing you? the lanes in this neighbourhood are somewhat intricate—you are not perhaps aware that the road you are now following is a private one." "Scarcely so private that those who have business with Mr. Vernor may not make use of it, I presume," rejoined I. "Oh! of course not," was the reply—"I did not know that you were acquainted with my uncle; though now I come to think of it, I do recollect his saying that he had met you somewhere. He seldom receives visitors in the morning;—in fact, when I came out, I left him particularly engaged. Perhaps I can save you the trouble of going up to the house; is there any message I can deliver for you?" "I thank you," replied I, "but I do not think the business which has brought me here could be well transacted through a third person; at all events, I will take my chance of being admitted:"—I paused, but could not refrain from adding, "besides, if my memory fails not, you were a somewhat heedless messenger in days of yore."

This allusion to his embezzlement of Oaklands' letter stung him to the quick: he turned as white as ashes, and ~296~~ asked, in a voice that trembled with passion, "Whether I meant to insult him?"

"I spoke heedlessly, and without deliberate intention," I replied; "but perhaps it is only fair to tell you that for the future there can be no friendly communication between us; we must either avoid each other altogether, which would be the most desirable arrangement, or meet as strangers. The disgraceful conduct of the boy I could have forgiven and forgotten, had not its memory been revived by the evil deeds of the man. Richard Cumberland, I know you thoroughly; it is needless for me to add more."

As I spoke his cheek flushed, then grew pale again with shame and anger, while he bit his under lip so severely that a red line remained where his teeth had pressed it. When I concluded, he advanced towards me with a threatening gesture, but, unable to meet the steadfast look with which I confronted him, he turned abruptly on his heel, and muttering, "You shall repent this," disappeared among the shrubs.



CHAPTER XXXVIII PACING THE ENEMY

"'Sir,' said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, 'Your unexpected presence here will make It necessary for myself to crave Its import? But perhaps it's a mistake. I hope it is so; and at once, to waive All compliment, I hope so for your sake. You understand my meaning, or you shall.'" Beppo.

"IS your master—is Mr. Vernor at home?" inquired I of the grim-visaged old servant, who looked, if possible, taller and more wooden than when I had last seen him.

"Well, I suppose not, sir!" was the somewhat odd reply.

"You suppose!" repeated I; "if you have any doubt, had you not better go and see?"

"That won't be of no manner of use, sir," was the rejoinder; "I should not be none the wiser."

It was clear that the old man was a complete original; but his affection for Clara was a virtue which in my eyes would have atoned for any amount of eccentricity; and as I was anxious to stand well in his good graces, I ~297~~ determined to fall in with his humour; accordingly I replied with a smile, "How do you make out that—did you never hear that seeing is believing?"

"Not always, sir," he answered, "for if I'd a trusted to my eyesight—and it ain't so bad neither for a man that's no great way off sixty—I should have fancied Muster Wernor was a sitting in the liberrary; but he told me he was not at home hisself, and he ought to know best."

"Tell him I won't detain him long," returned I, "but that I am come on business of importance."

"'Tain't of no manner of use, young gentleman," was the reply; "he told me he wasn't at home, and he said it uncommon cross too, as if he meant it, and if I was to go to him twenty times he'd only say the same thing." "What's your name, my good friend?" inquired I. "Peter Barnett, at your service, sir," was the answer. "Well, then, Peter, we must contrive to understand one another a little better. You have known your young mistress from a child, and have a sincere regard for her—is it not so?"

"What, Miss Clara, God bless her!—why, I love her as if she was my own flesh and blood; I should be a brute if I didn't, poor lamb."

"Well, then, when I tell you that her happiness is very nearly connected with the object of my visit—when I say, that it is to prevent her from being obliged to do something of which she has the greatest abhorrence that I am anxious to meet Mr. Vernor—I am sure you will contrive that I shall see him."

As I concluded, the old man, muttering to himself, "That's it, is it?" began to examine me from top to toe with a critical glance, as if I had been some animal he was about to purchase; and when he reached my face, gazed at me long and fixedly, as though striving to read my character. Apparently the result of his scrutiny was favourable, for after again saying in a low tone, "Well, I likes the looks of him," he added, "This way, young gentleman—you shall see him if that's what you want—it ain't a hanging matter, after all". As he spoke, he threw open the door of the library, saying, "Gentleman says his business is wery partikler, so I thought you'd better see him yourself".

Mr. Vernor, who was seated at a table writing, rose on my entrance, bowed stiffly to me, and, casting a withering glance on Peter Barnett, signed to him to shut the door. As soon as that worthy had obeyed the command, he ~298~~ resumed his seat, and, addressing me with the same frigid politeness which he had shown on the occasion of my first visit to him, said, "I am somewhat occupied this morning, and must therefore be excused for inquiring at once what very particular business Mr. Fairlegh can have with me". His tone and manner, as he spoke, were such as to render me fully aware of the pleasant nature of the task before me; namely, to make the most disagreeable communication possible, to the most disagreeable person to whom such a communication could be made. Still, I was regularly in for it; there was nothing left for me but to "go a-head"; and as I thought of Clara and her sorrows, the task seemed to lose half its difficulty. However, it was not without some hesitation that I began:—

"When you learn the object of my visit, sir, you will perceive that I have not intruded upon you without reason". I paused; but, finding he remained silent, added—"As you are so much occupied this morning, I had better perhaps enter at once upon the business which has brought me here. You are probably aware that I have had the pleasure of spending the last few days in the same house with Miss Saville." As I mentioned Clara's name, his brow grew dark as night; but he still continued silent, and I proceeded. "It is, I should conceive, impossible for anyone to enjoy the privilege of that young lady's society, without experiencing the warmest feelings of admiration and interest. Towards the termination of her visit, accident led me to the knowledge of her acquaintance with Mr. Cumberland, who I then learned, for the first time, was your nephew. I would not willingly say anything which might distress or annoy you, Mr. Vernor," continued I, interrupting myself, "but I fear that, in order to make myself intelligible, I must advert to an affair which I would willingly have forgotten."

"Go on, sir," was the reply, in a cold sarcastic tone of voice—"pray finish your account without reference to my feelings; I am not likely to alarm your sensibility by any affecting display of them."

As the most sceptical could not have doubted for a moment the truth of this assertion, I resumed: "From my previous knowledge of Mr. Cumberland's character, I could not but consider him an unfit acquaintance for a young lady; and, on hinting this, and endeavouring to ascertain the extent of Miss Saville's intimacy with him, I was equally shocked and surprised to learn that she was actually engaged to him, and that you not only sanctioned the engagement, but were even desirous that the match ~299~~ should take place. Feeling sure that this could only proceed from your being ignorant of the character of the class of persons with whom your nephew associates, and the more than questionable reputation he has thereby acquired, I considered it my duty to afford you such information as may enable you to ascertain for yourself the truth of the reports which have reached my ear."

"Exceedingly conscientious and praiseworthy: I ought to feel infinitely indebted to you, young gentleman," interrupted Mr. Vernor sarcastically; "of course you made the young lady acquainted with your disinterested and meritorious intentions '?"

"I certainly thought it right to inform Miss Saville of the facts I have mentioned, and to obtain her permission, ere I ventured to interfere in her behalf."

As I spoke, the gloom on Mr. Vernor's brow grew darker, and I expected an outburst of rage, but his self-control was stronger than 1 had imagined, for it was in the same cold ironical manner that he replied, "And may I ask, supposing this iniquitous engagement to have been broken off by your exertions, is Virtue to be its own reward? will you sit down content with having done your duty? or have you not some snug little scheme in petto, to console the disconsolate damsel for her loss? If I am not mistaken, you were professing warm feelings of admiration for my ward a few minutes since."

"Had you waited till I had finished speaking, you would have perceived, sir, that your taunt was undeserved. I have no wish to conceal anything from you—on the contrary, one of my chief objects in seeking this interview was to inform you of the deep and sincere affection I entertain for Miss Saville, and of my intention of coming forward to seek her hand, as soon as my professional prospects shall enable me to support a wife."

"And have you succeeded in inducing the lady to promise, that, in the event of my allowing her to break off her present engagement, she will wait for the somewhat remote and visionary contingency you have hinted at?"

"I have never made the attempt, sir," replied I, drawing myself up proudly, for I began to think that I was carrying forbearance too far, in submitting thus tamely to his repeated insults; "my only desire is to convince you of the necessity of breaking off this preposterous engagement, which is alike unsuitable in itself, and distasteful to Miss Saville; for the rest, I must trust to time, and to the unshaken constancy of my own affection (with ~300~~ which it is only fair to tell you the young lady is acquainted), for the accomplishment of my hopes. Had I the power to fetter your ward by a promise which she might afterwards be led to repent, nothing should induce me to make use of it."

"Really, your moderation is quite unparalleled," exclaimed Mr. Vernor; "such generosity now might be almost calculated to induce a romantic girl to persuade her guardian to allow her to marry at once, and devote her fortune to the purpose of defraying the household expenses, till such time as the professional expectations you mention should be realised; and Clara Saville is just the girl who might do it, for I am afraid I must distress your magnanimity by informing you of a circumstance, of which, of course, you have not the slightest idea at present, namely, that if Miss Saville should marry with her guardian's consent, she will become the possessor of a very considerable fortune: what think you of such a plan?"

"Mr. Vernor," replied I, "I was aware that the communication I had to make to you was calculated to pain and annoy you, and that circumstances obliged me to urge my suit at a moment most disadvantageous to its success; I did not therefore imagine that our interview was likely to be a very agreeable one; but I own I did expect to have credit given me for honourable motives, and to be treated with the consideration due from one gentleman to another."

"It grieves me to have disappointed such moderate and reasonable expectations," was the reply; "but, unfortunately, I have acquired a habit of judging men rather by their actions than their words, and forming my opinion accordingly; and by the opinion thus formed I regulate my conduct towards them."

"May I inquire what opinion you can possibly have formed of me, which would justify your treating me otherwise than as a gentleman?" asked I, as calmly as I was able, for I was most anxious not to allow him to perceive the degree to which his taunts irritated me.

"Certainly; only remember, if it is not exactly what you approve, that I mention it in compliance with your own express request—but first, for I am unwilling to do you injustice, let me be sure that I understand you clearly:—you state that you are unable to marry till you shall have realised by your profession an income sufficient to support a wife; therefore, I presume that your patrimony is somewhat limited."

~301~~ "You are right, sir; my poor father was too liberal a man to die rich; my present income is somewhat less than a hundred pounds per annum."

"And your profession?"

"It is my intention to begin reading for the bar almost immediately."

"A profession usually more honourable than lucrative for the first ten years or so. Well, young gentleman, the case seems to stand very much as I imagined, nor do I perceive any reason for altering my opinion of your conduct. Chance throws in your way a young lady, possessing great beauty, who is prospective heiress to a very valuable property, and it naturally enough occurs to you, that making love is likely to be more agreeable, and in the present instance more profitable also, than reading law; accordingly, you commence operations, and for some time all goes on swimmingly, Miss Saville, like any other girl in her situation, having no objection to vary the monotony of a long engagement by a little innocent flirtation; affairs of this kind, however, seldom run smoothly long together, and at some moment, when you were rather more pressing than usual, the young lady thinks it advisable to inform you, that in accordance with her father's dying wish, and of her own free will, she has engaged herself to the nephew of her guardian, who strangely enough happens to be an old schoolfellow of yours, against whom you have always nourished a strong and unaccountable feeling of dislike. Here, then, was a famous opportunity to display those talents for plotting and manoeuvring which distinguished Mr. Fairlegh even in his boyish days; accordingly, a master-scheme is invented, whereby the guardian shall be cajoled and brow-beaten into giving his consent, enmity satisfied by the rival's discomfiture and overthrow, and talent rewarded by obtaining possession of the young lady and her fortune. As a first step you take advantage of a lover's quarrel to persuade Miss Saville that she is averse to the projected alliance, and trump up an old tale of some boyish scrape to induce her to believe Cumberland unworthy of her preference, ending, doubtless, by modestly proposing yourself as a substitute. Inexperience, and the natural capriciousness of woman, stand your friend; the young lady appears for the moment gained over, and, flushed with success, the bold step of this morning is resolved upon. Such, sir, is my opinion of your conduct. It only remains for me to inform you that 1 have not the slightest intention of breaking off the engagement in ~302~~ consequence of your disinterested representations, nor, under any circumstances, would I allow my ward to throw herself away upon a needy fortune-hunter. There can be nothing more to say, I think; and as I have some important papers to look over this morning, I dare say you will excuse my ringing the bell."

"One moment, sir," replied I warmly, "although your age prevents my taking notice of the unprovoked insults you have seen fit to heap upon me——"

"Really," interposed Mr. Vernor, in a deprecating tone, "you must pardon me; I have not time for all this sort of thing to-day."

"You shall hear me!" exclaimed I passionately; "I have listened in silence to accusations calculated to make the blood of any man, worthy to be so called, boil in his veins—accusations which, at the very moment you utter them, you know to be entirely false: you know well Miss Saville's just and deeply rooted aversion to this match, and you know that it existed before she and I had ever met; you know the creditable nature of what you term the 'boyish scrape,' in which your nephew was engaged—a scrape which, but for the generous forbearance of others, might have ended in his transportation as a convicted felon; and this knowledge (even if you are ignorant of the dishonourable and vicious course of life he now leads) should be enough to prevent your sanctioning such a marriage. I pass over your insinuations respecting myself in silence; should I again prefer my suit for Miss Saville's hand to you, it will be as no needy fortune-hunter that I shall do so; but once more let me implore you to pause—reconsider the matter—inquire for yourself into your nephew's pursuits—ascertain the character of his associates, and then judge whether he is a fit person to be entrusted with the happiness of such a being as Clara Saville."

"Vastly well, sir! exceedingly dramatic, indeed!" observed Mr. Vernor, with a sneer; "you really have quite a talent for—genteel comedy, I think they call it; you would be perfect in the line of character termed the 'walking gentleman'—have you ever thought of the stage?"

"I perceive," replied I, "that by remaining here, I shall only subject myself to additional insult: determined to carry out your own bad purpose, you obstinately close your ears to the voice alike of reason and of conscience; and now," I added, in a stern tone, "hear my resolve: I have promised Miss Saville to save her from Richard ~303~~ Cumberland; as the fairest and most honourable way of doing so, I applied to you, her lawful guardian and protector; I have failed, and you have insulted and defied me. I now tell you, that I will leave NO MEANS untried to defeat your nefarious project, and, if evil or disgrace should befal you or yours in consequence, upon your own head be it. You may smile at my words, and disregard them as idle threats which I am powerless to fulfil, but remember, you have no longer a helpless girl to deal with, but a determined man, who, with right and justice on his side, may yet thwart your cunningly devised schemes;—and so, having given you fair warning, I will leave you."

"Allow me to mention one fact, young sir," returned Mr. Vernor, "which demands your serious attention, as it may prevent you from committing a fatal error, and save you all further trouble. Should Clara Saville marry without my consent, she does so penniless, and the fortune devolves upon the next heir; ha!" he exclaimed, as I was unable to repress an exclamation of pleasure, "have I touched you there?"

"You have indeed, sir," was my reply; "for you have removed the only scruple which stood in my way. No one can now accuse me of interested motives; 'needy fortune-hunters' do not seek to ally themselves to portionless damsels; allow me to offer you my best thanks for your information, and to wish you good-morning, sir."

So saying, I rose and quitted the room, leaving Mr. Vernor, in a state of ill-suppressed rage, to the enjoyment of his own reflections.

On entering the hall, I found old Peter Barnett awaiting me. As I appeared, his stiff features lighted up with a most sagacious grin of intelligence, and approaching me, he whispered:—

"Did ye give it him strong?" (indicating the person he referred to by an expressive jerk of his thumb towards the library door). "I heard ye blowing of him up—but did ye give it him reg'lar strong?"

"I certainly told Mr. Vernor my opinion with tolerable plainness," replied I, smiling at the intense delight which was visible in every line of the strange old face beside me.

"No! Did ye?—did ye? That was right," was the rejoinder. "Lor! how I wish I'd a been there to see; but I heard ye though—I heard ye a giving it to him," and again he relapsed into a paroxysm of delight.

"Peter," said I, "I want to have a little private conversation with you—how is that to be managed? Is there any place near where you could meet me?" ~304~~ "You come here from Hillingford, didn't ye, sir?" I nodded assent. He continued:—"Did you notice a hand-post which stands where four roads meet, about a mile and a half from here?"

"I saw it," returned I, "and even tried to read what was painted on it, but of course, after the manner of all country direction posts, it was totally illegible."

"Well, when you get there, take the road to the left, and ride on till ye see an ale-house on the right-hand side, and stay there till I come to ye."

"I will," replied I, "but don't keep me waiting longer than you can help—there's a good man."

An understanding grin was his only answer; and mounting my unpleasant horse (who seemed much more willing to proceed quietly when his head was turned in a homeward direction), I rode slowly through the park, my state of mind affording a practical illustration, that Quintus Horatius Flaccus was about right in his conjecture that Care sometimes indulged herself with a little equestrian exercise on a pillion.{1}

1 "Post equitem sedet atra cura."



CHAPTER XXXIX — THE COUNCIL OF WAR

"Oh! good old man: how well in thee, appears The constant service of the antique world!" —As You Like It.

"Now will I deliver his letter; for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding." —Twelfth Night.

"Farewell! be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains. Farewell! commend me to thy mistress." —Romeo and Juliet.

THE place of meeting appointed by Peter Barnett was easily discovered, and having tied up my horse under a shed, which served the double purpose of stable and coach-house, I took possession of a small room with a sanded floor, and throwing myself back in a most uneasy easy-chair, began to think over my late interview, and endeavour to devise some practicable plan for the future. The first thing was to establish some means of free communication with Clara, and this I hoped to accomplish by the assistance of Peter Barnett. I should thus learn Mr. Vernor's proceedings, and be able to regulate my ~305~~ conduct accordingly. If, as I dreaded, he should attempt to force on the marriage immediately, would Clara, alone and unassisted, have sufficient courage and strength of purpose to resist him? I feared not; and how was I effectually to aid her? The question was more easily asked than answered. It was clear that her fortune was the thing aimed at, for I could not believe either Mr. Vernor or his nephew likely to be actuated by disinterested motives;—and it was to their avarice, then, that Clara was to be sacrificed—had she been portionless she would have been free to marry whom she pleased. Of all sources of evil and misery, money appears to be the most prolific; in the present case its action was twofold—Clara was rendered wretched in consequence of possessing it, while the want of it incapacitated me from boldly claiming her hand at once, which appeared to be the only effectual method of assisting her.

My meditations were at this point interrupted by the arrival of my future privy counsellor, Peter Barnett, who marched solemnly into the room, drew himself up to his full height, which very nearly equalled that of the ceiling, brought his hand to his forehead in a military salute, and then, closing the door cautiously, and with an air of mystery, stood at ease, evidently intending me to open the conversation.

"Well, Peter," began I, by way of something to say, for I felt the greatest difficulty in entering on the subject which then occupied my thoughts before such an auditor. "Well, Peter, you have not kept me waiting long; I scarcely expected to see you so soon: do you imagine that Mr. Vernor will remark your absence?"

"He knows it already," was the reply. "Why, bless ye, sir, he ordered me to go out hisself." "Indeed! how was that?"

"Why, as soon as you was gone, sir, he pulled the bell like mad. 'Send Mr. Richard here,' says he. 'Yes, sir,' says I, 'certingly; only he's not at home, sir.' When he heard this he grumbled out an oath, or sumthin' of that nature, and I was going to take myself off, for I see he wasn't altogether safe, when he roars out 'Stop!' ('You'd a said "halt," if you'd a been a officer or a gentleman, which you ain't neither,' thinks I.) 'What do you mean by letting people in when I have given orders to the contrairy?' says he. 'Who was it as blowed me up for sending away a gent as said he wanted to see you on partiklar business, only yesterday?' says I. That bothered him nicely, and he didn't know how to be down upon me; ~306~~ but at last he thought he'd serve me one of his old tricks. So he says, 'Peter, what are you doing to-day'?' I see what he was at, and I thought I'd ketch him in his own trap. 'Very busy a cleaning plate, sir,' says I. This was enough for him: if I was a cleaning plate, in course I shouldn't like to be sent out; so says he, 'Go down to Barnsley, and see whether Mr. Cumberland is there'. 'But the plate, sir?' 'Never mind the plate.' 'It won't never look as it ought to do, if I am sent about in this way,' says I. 'Do as you're ordered, and leave the room instantly,' says he, grinding his teeth reg'lar savage-like. So I took him at his word, and come away to see you as hard as I could pelt; but you've put him into a sweet temper, Mr. Fairlegh."

"Why, that I'm afraid was scarcely to be avoided," replied I, "as my business was to inform him that I considered his nephew an unfit person to marry his ward."

"Oh! did you tho'?—did you tell him that?" cried my companion, with a chuckle of delight; "that was right: I wonder how he liked that!"

"As he did not exactly agree with me in this opinion, but, on the contrary, plainly declared his intention of proceeding with the match in spite of me, it is necessary for me to consider what means I can best use to prevent him from accomplishing his object; it is in this that 1 shall require your assistance."

"And what does Miss Clara say about it, young gentleman?" inquired the old man, fixing his eyes on me with a scrutinising glance.

"Miss Saville dislikes Richard Cumberland, and dreads the idea of being forced to marry him above everything." "Ah! I know she does, poor lamb; and well she may, for there ain't a more dissipateder young scoundrel to be found nowhere than Mr. Wernor's precious 'nephew,' as he calls him, tho' it's my belief he might call him 'son' without telling a lie."

"Indeed! I was not aware that Mr. Vernor had ever been married."

"No; I never heard that he was reg'lar downright married; but he may be his son, for all that. Howsurn-ever, p'raps it is so, or p'raps it ain't; I'm only a tellin' you what I fancies, sir," was the reply. "But what I wanted to know," he continued, again fixing his eyes on my face, "is, what does Miss Clara say to you? eh!"