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 c.u.mberland 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 c.u.mberland'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 c.u.mberland 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 c.u.mberland, 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 G.o.d 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 c.u.mberland, 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 const.i.tuted 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 a.s.sumed 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 c.u.mberland, 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 c.u.mberland (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 a.s.suming 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 circ.u.mstances 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 c.u.mberland 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 c.u.mberland.

Little more remained for her to tell; reckoning that he had gained his point, c.u.mberland 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 circ.u.mspection 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 c.u.mberland, 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 a.s.sistance 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 c.u.mberland?

Were I free, indeed----"

"Oh! why do you pause?" exclaimed I pa.s.sionately. "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 a.s.sistance. 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 c.u.mberland, 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 x.x.xVII -- THE FORLORN HOPE

"--c.u.mberland 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 doc.u.ment indeed, and foreboded for that good old lady herself an unprecedented and distracting afternoon.

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 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 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."