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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s, 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 c.o.c.k 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 appet.i.te 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 a.s.sist 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 ent.i.tle you to offer the consolation your heart would dictate, the position becomes doubly embarra.s.sing. 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 a.s.sistance, 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 a.s.sistance 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 una.s.sisted 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 n.o.body 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 90 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 s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g 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 x.x.xVI -- 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 a.s.sistance, all communication between us would have ceased, and the deep interest I felt in her, having nothing wherewith to sustain itself, would, as years pa.s.sed 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!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: page281 The Discovery]

"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 c.u.mberland?"

"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 pa.s.sionate 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 circ.u.mstances 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 circ.u.mstances--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 c.u.mberland, 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, n.o.ble, 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 c.u.mberland, 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 c.u.mberland!" 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 c.u.mberland is Mr.