Part 43 (2/2)

I had a.s.sisted 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 pa.s.sion, wayward and impetuous in its very nature--agitating and disquieting in its effects, rendering its votary the slave of circ.u.mstances--a mere shuttlec.o.c.k 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 c.u.mberland's former delinquencies, as well as the reputation in which he was now held by such of his a.s.sociates as had any pretension to the t.i.tle 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. c.u.mberland 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 subst.i.tute 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 a.s.sure me that Mr. Vernor's determination with regard to her remained unchanged, ere I would seek an interview with him, enlighten him as to c.u.mberland'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 90 14s. 6d. 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 c.u.mberland--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 const.i.tution, 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 c.u.mberland--aman dest.i.tute of every honourable feeling--oh! he must see that the thing was impossible, and, as the thought pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 pa.s.s, 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 c.u.mberland'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 pa.s.sed off without anything particular taking place. Mr. c.u.mberland'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 a.s.sure you I did not mean anything personal; and now for a word of sense. b.u.mpus, 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; n.o.body 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 pa.s.s 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 embarra.s.sing 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 a.s.sociate 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 c.o.c.k-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 c.u.mberland!

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. c.u.mberland,” returned I, ”though I could hardly have flattered myself that my appearance would have recalled any very pleasurable a.s.sociations, considering the last two occasions on which we met.”

”Ah! you refer to that unfortunate affair with Wilford,” replied c.u.mberland, 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.”

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