Part 61 (2/2)
In reply to my exclamations of surprise, he proceeded to inform me that his father, a man of considerable property in one of the midland counties, had had three children: himself, an elder brother, and a sister some years his junior, whose birth deprived him of a mother's love. His brother tyrannised over him; and on the occasion of his father's second marriage, he was sent to school, where he was again unfortunate enough to meet with harsh treatment, against which his high spirit rebelled; and having no better counsellors than his own inexperience and impetuosity, he determined to run away and go to sea.
A succession of accidents conspired to prevent his return to his native country, until, being taken as clerk in a merchant's counting-house at Calcutta, he was eventually admitted into partners.h.i.+p, and acquired a large fortune. As he advanced beyond middle life, he felt a strong wish to return to England, seek out his family, and revisit the scenes of his boyhood; but on carrying -408-- his project into execution, he learned that his father and brother had both paid the debt of nature, while his sister, the only one of his relatives towards whom he had ever entertained much affection, had married a Colonel Saville; and having accompanied her husband to Spain, had died there without leaving any offspring. The last piece of information he had acquired from a Mr. Vernor, to whom he had been recommended to apply. His surprise, therefore, when he heard of the existence of Clara, may easily be imagined. A long conversation ensued between us, with the consequences of which the reader will be better acquainted when he shall have read the following chapter.
CHAPTER L -- A RAY OF SUNs.h.i.+NE
”When you shall please to play the thief for a wife, I'll watch as long for _you_.”
--_Shakspeare_.
”Hold! give me a pen and ink! Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplication?
--_t.i.tus Andronicus_.
THE result of my conversation with Mr. Frampton was, that I agreed to ride over on the following day to the little inn at Barstone, see old Peter Barnett, hear his report, and learn from him further particulars concerning Clara Saville's parentage, in order to establish beyond the possibility of doubt the fact of her relations.h.i.+p to Mr. Frampton, who, in the event of his expectations proving well-founded, was determined to a.s.sert his claim, supersede Mr.Vernor in his office of guardian, and endeavour, by every means in his power, to prevent his niece's marriage either with Wilford or c.u.mberland. The only stipulation I made was, that when I had obtained the requisite information, he should take the affair entirely into his own hands, and, above all, promise me never to attempt, directly or indirectly, to bring about a reconciliation between Clara and myself. Not that I bore her any ill-will for the misery she had caused me. On the contrary, my feeling towards her had been from the very first one of grief rather than of anger. But a girl who could possibly have acted as Clara had done, was not one whom I ever should wish to make my wife. I could not marry a woman I despised.
After Mr. Frampton had left me, I sat pondering on the singular train of circ.u.mstances (chances, as we unwisely, if not sinfully, term them) which occur in a -409-- man's life--how events which change the whole current of our existence appear to hang upon the merest trifles--the strange, mysterious influence we exercise over the destinies of each other--how by a word, a look, we may heal an aching heart or--break it.
It is, I think, in a poem of Faber's that the following lines occur--(I quote from memory, and therefore, perhaps, incorrectly):--
”Perchance our very souls Are in each other's hands.”
Life is, indeed, a fearful and wonderful thing--doubly fearful when we reflect, that every moment we expend for good or evil is a seed sown to blossom in eternity. As I thought on these things, something which Mr.
Frampton had said, and which at the time I let pa.s.s without reflection, recurred to my mind. He had asked me whether I was certain that the words I heard Clara address to Wilford referred to me. Up to this moment I had felt perfectly sure they did; but after all, was it so certain?
might they not equally well apply to c.u.mberland? was there a chance, was it even possible, that I had misunderstood her? Oh, that I dare hope it!
gladly would I seek her pardon for the injustice I had done her--gladly would I undergo any probation she might appoint, to atone for my want of faith in her constancy, even if it entailed years of banishment from her presence, the most severe punishment my imagination could devise; but then the facts, the stubborn, immovable facts, my letters received and unanswered--the confidential footing she was on with Wilford--the--But why madden myself by recapitulating the hateful catalogue? I had learned the worst, and would not suffer myself to be again beguiled by the mere phantom of a hope. And yet, so thoroughly inconsistent are we, that my heart felt lightened of half its burden; and when the pleasure-seekers returned from their expedition, I was congratulated by the whole party upon the beneficial effects produced on my headache by perfect rest and quiet. Lawless and Coleman made their appearance some half-hour after the others, and just as Mr. Frampton had promulgated the cheering opinion that they would be brought home on shutters, minus their brains, if they ever possessed any. It seemed the chestnuts having at starting relieved their minds by the little _ballet d'action_ which had excited Mr. Frampton's terrors, did their work in so fascinating a manner, that Lawless, not being satisfied with Shrimp's declaration that ”they -410-- was the stunnin'est 'orses as hever he'd sot hyes on,” determined (wis.h.i.+ng to display their perfections to a higher audience) that one of the party should accompany him on his return; whereupon Freddy Coleman had been by common consent selected, much against his will. However, ”the victim,” as he termed himself, escaped without anything very tremendous happening to him, the chestnuts (with the slight exception of running away across a common, rus.h.i.+ng through a flock of geese, thereby bringing a premature Michaelmas on certain unfortunate individuals of the party in a very reckless and unceremonious manner, and das.h.i.+ng within a few inches of a gravel-pit, in a way which was more exciting than agreeable) having conducted themselves (or more properly speaking, allowed themselves to be conducted) as well-bred horses ought to do.
When the party separated to prepare for dinner, I called f.a.n.n.y on one side, and gave her Sir. Frampton's letter: on opening it a banker's order for three thousand pounds dropped out of it--a new instance of my kind friend's liberality, which really distressed more than it gratified me.
During the course of the evening Harry Oaklands expressed so much anxiety about my ill looks, appearing almost hurt at my reserve, that I could hold out no longer, but was forced to take him into my confidence.
”My poor Frank!” exclaimed he, wringing my hand warmly, as I finished the recital, ”to think that you should have been suffering all this sorrow and anxiety, while I, selfishly engrossed by my own feelings, had not an idea of it; but you ought to have told me sooner.”
”Perhaps I should; but it has been, from the very beginning, such a strange, melancholy affair, so unlikely ever to turn out happily, that I have felt a strong repugnance to speak of it to any one; and even now I must beg you not to mention it to f.a.n.n.y, at all events till my last act in the business is performed, and Mr. Frampton takes the matter into his own hands.”
”After all,” rejoined Oaklands, ”I feel there must be some mistake; she never can be false to you--never love that villain Wilford. Oh, Frank!
how can you bear to doubt her?”
”It is indeed misery to do so,” replied I, sighing deeply; ”and yet, when one's reason is convinced, it is weakness to give way to the suggestions of feeling.”
”If f.a.n.n.y were to prove false to me, I should lie down and die,”
exclaimed Oaklands vehemently.
”You might wish to do so,” replied I; ”but grief does -411-- not always kill; if it did, in many cases it would lose half its bitterness.”
A look was his only answer, and we parted for the night.
Daylight the next morning found me again in the saddle, and I reached the little inn by eight o'clock. On my arrival, I despatched a messenger to old Peter Barnett, telling him I wished to see him, and then, determining that I would not allow myself to hope, only again to be disappointed, I rang for breakfast, and set resolutely to work to demolish it; in which I succeeded very respectably, merely stopping to walk round the room and look out of the window between every second mouthful. At length my envoy returned, with a message to the effect that Mr. Barnett would come down in the course of the morning, but that I was by no means to go away without seeing him, and that he hoped I would be careful not to show myself, as the enemy were out in great force, and all the sentries had been doubled.
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