The Gipsy: A Tale (Vols I & II)
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Title: The Gipsy: A Tale (Vols I & II)
Author: G. P. R. James
Release date: April 4, 2012 [eBook #39376]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39376
Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by
Google Books (Princeton University Library)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIPSY: A TALE (VOLS I & II) ***
Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by
Google Books (Princeton University Library)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=nqMuAAAAYAAJ
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
THE GIPSY;
A TALE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"RICHELIEU," "MARY OF BURGUNDY," &c.
"Ah! what a tangled web we weave,
When first we venture to deceive."
Sir Walter Scott.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1855.
THE GIPSY.
CHAPTER I.
At that time in the world's history when watches, in their decline
from the fat comeliness of the turnip to the scanty meagerness of the
half-crown, had arrived at the intermediate form of a biffin--when the
last remnant of a chivalrous spirit instigated men to wear swords
every day, and to take purses on horseback--when quadrupeds were
preferred to steam, and sails were necessary to a ship--when Chatham
and Blackstone appeared in the senate and at the bar, and Goldsmith,
Johnson, and Burke, Cowper, Reynolds, Robertson Hume, and Smollett,
were just beginning to cumber the highways of arts and sciences--at
that period of the dark ages, the events which are about to be related
undoubtedly took place, in a county which shall be nameless.
It may be that the reader would rather have the situation more
precisely defined, in order, as he goes along, to fix each particular
incident that this book may hereafter contain to the precise spot and
person for which it was intended. Nevertheless, such disclosures must
not be; in the first place, because the story, being totally and
entirely a domestic one, depends little upon locality; and, in the
next place, because greater liberties can be taken with people and
things when their identity is left in doubt, than when it is clearly
ascertained; for, although--
"When caps into a crowd are thrown,
What each man fits he calls his own,"
yet no one likes to have his name written upon his fool's cap, and
handed down for the benefit of posterity, attached to such an
ornament.
It was, then, on an evening in the early autumn, at that particular
period of history which we have described, that two persons on
horseback were seen riding through a part of the country, the aspect
of which was one whereon we delight to dwell; that is to say, it was a
purely English aspect. Now, this character is different from all
others, yet subject to a thousand varieties; for although England, in
its extent, contains more, and more beautiful scenes, of different
kinds and sorts of the picturesque, than any other country under
heaven, nevertheless there is an aspect in them all that proclaims
them peculiarly English. It is not a sameness--far, far from it; but
it is a harmony; and whether the view be of a mountain or a valley, a
plain or a wood, a group of cottages by the side of a clear, still
trout stream, or a country town cheering the upland, there is still to
be seen in each a fresh green Englishness, which--like the peculiar
tone of a great composer's mind, pervading all his music, from his
requiem to his lightest air--gives character and identity to every
object, and mingles our country, and all its sweet associations, with
the individual scene.
The spot through which the travellers were riding, and which was a
wide piece of forest ground, one might have supposed, from the nature
of the scenery, to be as common to all lands as possible; but no such
thing! and any one who gazed upon it required not to ask themselves in
what part of the world they were. The road, which, though sandy, was
smooth, neat, and well tended, came down the slope of a long hill,
exposing its course to the eye for near a mile. There was a gentle
rise on each side, covered with wood; but this rise, and its forest
burden, did not advance within a hundred yards of the road on either
hand, leaving between--except where it was interrupted by some old
sand-pits--a space of open ground covered with short green turf, with
here and there an ancient oak standing forward before the other trees,
and spreading its branches to the way-side. To the right was a little
rivulet gurgling along the deep bed it had worn for itself among the
short grass, in its way towards a considerable river that flowed
through the valley at about two miles' distance; and, on the left, the
eye might range far amid the tall, separate trees--now, perhaps,
lighting upon a stag at gaze, or a fallow deer tripping away over the
dewy ground as light and gracefully as a lady in a ballroom--till
sight became lost in the green shade and the dim wilderness of leaves
and branches.
Amid the scattered oaks in advance of the wood, and nestled into
the dry nooks of the sand-pits, appeared about half a dozen dirty
brown shreds of canvass, none of which seemed larger than a dinner
napkin, yet which--spread over hoops, cross sticks, and other
contrivances--served as habitations to six or seven families of that
wild and dingy race, whose existence and history is a phenomenon, not
among the least strange of all the wonderful things that we pass by
daily without investigation or inquiry. At the mouths of one or two of
these little dwelling-places might be seen some gipsy women with their
peculiar straw bonnets, red cloaks, and silk handkerchiefs; some
withered, shrunk, and witch-like, bore evident the traces of long
years of wandering exposure and vicissitude; while others, with the
warm rose of health and youth glowing through the golden brown of
their skins, and their dark gem-like eyes flashing undimmed by sorrow
or infirmity, gave the beau ideal of a beautiful nation long passed
away from thrones and dignities, and left but as the fragments of a
wreck dashed to atoms by the waves of the past.
At one point, amid white wood ashes, and many an unlawful feather from
the plundered cock and violated turkey, sparkled a fire and boiled a
caldron; and, round about the ancient beldam who presided over the pot
were placed in various easy attitudes several of the male members of
the tribe--mostly covered with long loose great-coats, which bespoke
the owners either changed or shrunk. A number of half-naked brats,
engaged in many a sport, filled up the scene, and promised a sturdy
and increasing race of rogues and vagabonds for after years.
Over the whole--wood, and road, and streamlet, and gipsy
encampment--was pouring in full stream the purple light of evening,
with the long shadows stretching across, and marking the distances all
the way up the slope of the hill. Where an undulation of the ground,
about half-way up the ascent, gave a wider space of light than
ordinary, were seen, as we have before said, two strangers riding
slowly down the road, whose appearance soon called the eyes of the
gipsy fraternity upon their movements; for the laws in regard to
vagabondism[1] had lately been strained somewhat hard, especially in
that part of the country, and the natural consequence was, that the
gipsy and the beggar looked upon almost every human thing as an enemy.
With their usual quick perception, however, they soon gathered that
the travellers were not of that cast from whom they had anything to
fear; and indeed there was nothing of the swaggering bailiff or
bullying constable in the aspect of either. The one was a man of
about six-and-twenty years of age, with fine features, a slight but
well-made person, and a brown but somewhat pale complexion. His eyes
were remarkably fine, and his mouth and chin beautifully cut; he rode
his horse, too, with skill and grace; and withal he had that air of
consequence which is at any time worth the riband of the Bath. His
companion was older, taller, stronger. In age he might be thirty-two
or three, in height he was fully six feet, and seldom was there ever a
form which excelled his in all those points where great strength is
afforded without any appearance of clumsiness. He rode his horse,
which was a powerful dark-brown gelding, as if half his life were
spent on horseback; and as he came down the hill with the peculiar
appearance of ease and power which great bodily strength and activity
usually give, one might well have concluded that he was as
fine-looking a man as one had ever beheld. But when he approached so
as to allow his features to be seen, all one's prepossessions were
dispelled, and one perceived that, notwithstanding this fine person,
he was in some respects as ugly a man as it was possible to conceive.
---------------------
[Footnote 1: At various times very severe laws have been enacted in
all countries against gipsies. The very fact of being a gipsy, or
consorting with them for a certain length of time, was, at one period,
punishable by death in England. The greater part of these laws,
however, had been repealed before the epoch at which the events
recorded in this book occurred; and that wandering race were simply
subject to the regulations respecting rogues and vagabonds. The old
spirit of the penal statutes, however, was not forgotten, and the
gipsies were often visited with bitter persecution long after those
statutes had ceased to exist. It is not unworthy of remark, that in
Scotland they have been, at various times, not only treated with great
lenity, but that their leaders have been recognised by law as
sovereign princes, exercising capital jurisdiction over their own race.]
---------------------
Thanks to Jenner and vaccination, we (the English) are nowadays as
handsome a people as any, perhaps, in Europe, with smooth skins and
features as nature made them; but in the times I talk of, vaccination,
alas! was unknown; and whatever the traveller we speak of might have
been before he had been attacked by the smallpox, the traces which
that horrible malady had left upon his face had deprived it of every
vestige of beauty--if, indeed, we except his eyes and eyelashes, which
had been spared as if just to redeem his countenance from the
frightful. They--his eyes and eyelashes--were certainly fine, very
fine; but they were like the beauty of Tadmor in the wilderness,
for all was ugliness around them. However, his countenance had a
good-humoured expression, which made up for much; neither was it of
that vulgar ugliness which robes and ermine but serve to render more
low and unprepossessing. But still, when first you saw him, you could
not but feel that he was excessively plain; and yet there was always
something at the heart which made one--as the ravages of the disease
struck the eye--think, if not say, "What a pity!"
The dress of the two strangers was alike, and it was military; but
although an officer of those days did not feel it at all scandalous or
wrong to show himself in his regimentals, yet such was not the case in
the present instance; and the habiliments of the two horsemen
consisted, as far as could be seen, of a blue riding-coat, bound round
the waist by a crimson scarf, with a pair of heavy boots, of that form
which afterward obtained the name of Pendragon. Swords were at their
sides, and--as was usual in those days, even for the most pacific
travellers--large fur-covered holsters were at their saddle-bows; so
that, although they had no servants with them, and were evidently of
that class of society upon which the more liberal-minded prey and have
preyed in all ages, there was about them "something dangerous," to
attack which would have implied great necessity or a very combative
disposition.
As the travellers rode on, the gipsy men, without moving from the
places they had before occupied, eyed them from under their bent
brows, affecting withal hardly to see them; while the urchins ran like
young apes by the side of their horses, performing all sorts of
antics, and begging hard for halfpence; and at length a girl of
about fifteen or sixteen--notwithstanding some forcible injunctions
to forbear on the part of the old woman who was tending the
caldron--sprang up the bank, beseeching the gentlemen, in the usual
singsong of her tribe, to cross her hand with silver, and have their
fortunes told; promising them at the same time a golden future, and,
like Launcelot, "a pretty trifle of wives."
In regard to her chiromantic science the gentlemen were obdurate,
though each of them gave her one of those flat polished pieces of
silver which were sixpences in our young days; and having done this,
they rode on, turning for a moment or two their conversation, which
had been flowing in a very different channel, to the subject of the
gipsies they had just passed, moralizing deeply on their strange
history and wayward fate, and wondering that no philanthropic
government had ever endeavoured to give them a "local habitation and a
name" among the sons and daughters of honest industry.
"I am afraid that the attempt would be in vain," answered the younger
of the two to his companion. "And besides, it would be doing a notable
injustice to the profession of petty larceny to deprive it of its only
avowed and honourable professors, while we have too many of its
amateur practitioners in the very best society already."
"Nay, nay! Society is not as bad as that would argue it," rejoined the
other. "Thank God, there are few thieves or pilferers within the
circle of my acquaintance, which is not small."
"Indeed!" said his companion. "Think for a moment, my dear colonel,
how many of your dearly-beloved friends are there who, for but a small
gratification, would pilfer from you those things that you value most
highly! How many would steal from one the affection of one's mistress
or wife! How many, for some flimsy honour, some dignity of riband or
of place, would pocket the reputation of deeds they had never done!
How many, for some party interest or political rancour, would deprive
you of your rightful renown, strip you of your credit and your fame,
and 'filch from you your good name!' Good God! those gipsies are
princes of honesty compared with the great majority of our dear
friends and worldly companions."
His fellow-traveller replied nothing for a moment or two, unless a
smile, partly gay, partly bitter, could pass for answer. The next
minute, however, he read his own comment upon it, saying, "I thought,
De Vaux, you were to forget your misanthropy when you returned to
England."
"Oh, so I have," replied the other in a gayer tone; "it was only a
single seed of the wormwood sprouting up again. But, as you must have
seen throughout our journey, my heart is all expansion at coming back
again to my native land, and at the prospect of seeing so many beings
that I love: though God knows," he added, somewhat gloomily--"God
knows whether the love be as fully returned. However, imagination
serves me for Prince Ali's perspective glass; and I can see them all,
even now, at their wonted occupations, while my vanity dresses up
their faces in smiles when they think of my near approach."
His companion sighed; and as he did not at all explain why he did
so, we must take the liberty of asking the worthy reader to walk into
the tabernacle of his bosom, and examine which of the mind's gods it
was that gave forth that oracular sigh, so that the officiating
priest may afford the clear interpretation thereof. But, to leave an
ill-conceived figure of speech, the simple fact was, that the picture
of home, and friends, and smiling welcome, and happy love, which his
companion's speech had displayed, had excited somewhat like envy in
the breast of Colonel Manners. Envy, indeed, properly so called, it
was not; for the breast of Colonel Manners was swept out and garnished
every day by a body of kindly spirits, who left not a stain of envy,
hatred, or malice in any corner thereof. The proper word would have
been _regret_; for regret it certainly was that he felt when he
reflected that, though he had many of what the world calls friends,
and a milky-way of acquaintances--though he was honoured and esteemed
wherever he came, and felt a proud consciousness that he deserved to
be so--yet that on all the wide surface of the earth there was no
sweet individual spot where dearer love, and brighter smiles, and
outstretched arms, glad voices, and sparkling eyes, waited to welcome
the wanderer home from battle, and danger, and privation, and fatigue.
He felt that there was a vacancy to him in all things; that the magic
chain of life's associations wanted a link; and he sighed--not with
_envy_, but with _regret_. That it was so was partly owing to events
over which he had no control. Left an orphan at an early age, the
father's mansion and the mother's bosom he had never known; and
neither brother nor sister had accompanied his pilgrimage through
life. His relations were all distant ones; and though (being the last
of a long line) great care had been bestowed upon his infancy and
youth, yet all the sweet ties and kindred fellowship which gather
thickly round us in a large family were wanting to him.
So far his isolated situation depended upon circumstances which he
could neither alter nor avoid; but that he had not created for himself
a home, and ties as dear as those which fortune had at first denied
him, depended on himself; or rather what in vulgar parlance is called
a _crotchet_, which was quite sufficiently identified with his whole
nature, to be considered as part of himself, though it was mingled
intimately--woven in and out--with qualities of a very different
character.
This crotchet--for that is the only term fitted for it, as it was
certainly neither a whim nor a caprice--this crotchet may be
considered as a matter of history--of his history, I mean; for it
depended upon foregone facts, which must be here explained. It is sad
to overturn all that imagination may have already done for the reader
on the very first news that Colonel Manners had a foregone history at
all. He had not been crossed in love, as may be supposed, nor had he
seen the object of his affections swept away by a torrent, burned in a
house on fire, killed by an unruly horse, or die by any of those means
usually employed for such a purpose. No; he had neither to bewail the
coldness nor the loss of her he loved, because, up to the moment when
we have set him before the reader, he had unfortunately never been in
love at all.
The fact is, that during his youth Colonel Manners had possessed one
of the finest faces in the world, and every one of his judicious
friends had taken care to impress deeply upon his mind that it was the
best portion of all his present possessions or future expectations. By
nature he was quite the reverse of a vain man; but when he saw that
the great majority of those by whom he was surrounded admired the
beauties of his face far more than the beauties of his mind, and loved
him for the symmetry of his external person more than for the
qualities of his heart, of course the conviction that, however much
esteem and respect might be gained by mental perfections, affection
was only given to beauty, became an integral part of that fine texture
of memories and ideas which, though I do not think it, as some have
done, the mind itself, I yet look upon as the mind's innermost
garment. Such was the case when, at the age of about twenty, he was
attacked by the smallpox. For a length of time he was not allowed to
see a looking-glass, the physicians mildly telling him that his
appearance would improve; that they trusted no great traces would
remain: but when he did see a looking-glass, he certainly saw the
reflection of somebody he had never seen before. In the mean while his
relations had too much regard for their own persons to come near him;
and when, after having purified in the country, he went to visit an
antique female cousin, who had been a card-playing belle in the reign
of his majesty of blessed memory, King George the First, the old lady
first made him a profound courtesy, taking him for a stranger; and
when she discovered who he was, burst forth with, "Good God, Charles!
you are perfectly frightful!"
To the same conclusion Charles Manners had by this time come himself;
and the very modesty of his original nature now leagued with one of
the deceptions of vanity, and made him believe that he could never, by
any circumstances, or events, obtain love. Nevertheless he made up his
mind to his fate entirely, and determined neither to seek for nor to
think of a good that could not be his. Indeed, at first, according to
the usual extravagance of man's nature, he flew to the very far
extreme, and believed that, putting woman's love out of the question,
even the more intimate friendship and affection of his fellow-men
might be influenced by his changed appearance, and that he would be
always more or less an object of that pity which touches upon scorn.
These ideas his commerce with the world soon showed him to be
fallacious; but in the mean time they had a certain effect upon his
conduct. Possessing a consciousness of great powers of mind and fine
qualities of the heart, he determined to cultivate and employ them to
the utmost, and compel esteem and respect, if love and affection were
not to be obtained. In his course through the army, too, the sort of
animosity which he felt against his own ugliness, which had cut him
off from happiness of a sort that he was well calculated to enjoy,
together with that mental and corporeal complexion which did not
suffer him to know what fear is, led him to be somewhat careless of
his own person; and during his earlier years of service he acquired
the name of rash Charles Manners. But it was soon found that wherever
the conduct of any enterprise was intrusted to his judgment, its
success was almost certain, and that skill and intrepidity with him
went hand-in-hand.
Gradually he found that, with men at least, and with soldiers
especially, personal beauty formed no necessary ingredient in
friendship; and with a warm heart and noble feelings--guarded,
however, by wisdom and discretion--he soon rendered himself
universally liked and esteemed in the different corps with which
he served, and had an opportunity of selecting one or two of his
fellow-officers for more intimate regard. Unfortunately, however, he
saw no reason to change his opinion in respect to woman's love.
Indeed, he sought not to change it; for, as we have already said, the
belief that female affection could only be won by personal beauty was
one of those intimate convictions which were interwoven with all the
fabric of his ideas. He ceased to think of it; he devoted himself
entirely to his profession; he won honour and the highest renown; he
found himself liked and esteemed by his military companions, courted
and admired in general society, and he was content: at least, if he
was not content, the regrets which would not wholly be smothered--the
yearnings for nearer ties and dearer affections, which are principles,
not thoughts--only found vent occasionally in such a sigh as that
which we have just described.
His companion, though he remarked it, made no comment on his sigh;
for, notwithstanding the most intimate relationships of friendship
which existed between himself and his fellow-traveller, and which had
arisen in mutual services that may hereafter be more fully mentioned,
he felt that the length of their acquaintance had not been such as to
warrant his inquiring more curiously into those private intricacies of
the bosom from which such signs of feeling issued forth. He saw,
however, that the proximate cause of the slight shadow that came over
his friend lay in something that he himself had said in picturing the
happy dreams that checkered his misanthropy; and putting his horse
into a quicker pace as they got upon the level ground, he changed the
subject while they rode on.
The time, as we have said, was evening; and as the strangers passed by
the gipsy encampment, a flood of purple light, pouring from as
splendid a heaven as ever held out the promise of bright after-days,
was streaming over the road; but as the travellers reached the flat,
and turned the angle of the wood where the road wound round the bases
of the hills, the sky was already waxing gray, and a small twinkling
spot of gold here and there told that darkness was coming fast. At the
distance of about half a mile farther, the river was first seen
flowing broad and silvery through the valley; and a quarter of an hour
more brought the travellers to a spot where the water, taking an
abrupt turn round a salient promontory thrown out from the main body
of the hills, left hardly room for the road between the margin and the
wood. On the other side of the river, which might be a hundred yards
broad, was a narrow green meadow, backed by some young fir plantings,
and just beyond the first turn of the bank a deep sombre dell led away
to the right; while the shadows of the trees over the water, the
darkening hue of the sky, and the wild uninhabited aspect of the whole
scene, gave a sensation of gloom, which was not diminished by a large
raven flapping heavily up from the edge of the water, and hovering
with a hoarse croak over some carrion it had found among the reeds.
"This is a murderous-looking spot enough!" said Colonel Manners,
turning slightly towards De Vaux, who had been silent for some
minutes; "this is a murderous-looking spot enough!"
"Well may it be so!" answered his companion abruptly; "well may it be
so; for on this very spot my uncle was murdered twenty years ago."
"Indeed!" exclaimed his fellow-traveller; "indeed--but on reflection,"
he added, "I remember having heard something of it, though I was then
a boy, and have forgotten all the circumstances."
He spoke as if he would willingly have heard them again detailed; but,
for a moment or two, De Vaux made no reply; and the next instant the
sound of a horse's feet at a quick trot suddenly broke upon the ear,
and called the attention of both. In a minute more, a horseman wrapped
in a large roquelaure passed them rapidly; and though he neither spoke
nor bowed, his sudden appearance was enough to break off the thread of
their discourse. When he was gone, Colonel Manners felt that, though
De Vaux might take it up again if he would, he himself could not in
propriety do so. De Vaux, however, was silent; for he was not one of
those men to whom the accidents and misfortunes of their friends and
relations furnished matter for pleasant discourse; and the topic of
course dropped there. Perhaps, indeed, the younger traveller showed
some inclination even to avoid the subject; for he led the
conversation almost immediately into another channel, pointing out to
his friend the various hills and landmarks which distinguished the
grounds of his father from those of his aunt, and dwelling with
enthusiasm upon the pleasures that his boyhood had there known, and
the hopes which his return had re-awakened in his bosom; and yet there
was mingled with the whole a touch of fastidiousness which contrasted
strangely enough with the warmth of feeling and expression to which he
gave way in other respects. He seemed to doubt the very love, the
happiness of which he pictured so brightly; he seemed to distrust the
joys to which he was so sensitively alive; he even seemed, in some
degree, to sneer at himself for giving the credence that he did to
those things which he most desired to believe true.
But Edward de Vaux had been brought up in a fastidious school. He had
lived at the acme of fortune and trod upon circumstances all his life,
and this we hold to be the true way of becoming misanthropical. It is
nonsense to suppose that a man turns misanthrope in consequence of
great misfortunes. No such thing! it is by being fortunate _ter et
amplius_. The spoiled children of the blind goddess are those that
kick at her wheel; and those on whom she showers nothing but
misfortunes cling tight to the tire, in hopes of a better turn, till
the next whirl casts them off into the wide hereafter.
Edward de Vaux stood at the climax of fortune. Never in his life had
he known what a serious reverse or great misfortune is; and
consequently he had gathered together all the petty vexations and
minor disappointments that he had met with, and, to use the term of
Napoleon Bonaparte, had nearly stung himself to death with wasps.
Perhaps, too, he might be fastidious by inheritance, for his father
was so in a still higher degree than himself; though in the father it
showed itself in irritable impatience, and a sort of contempt both
tyrannical and insulting towards those whom he disliked; while in the
son, mingled with, if not springing from, finer feelings: passing,
too, through the purifying medium of a gentler heart, and corrected by
a high sense of what is gentlemanly, his fastidiousness seldom showed
itself except in a passing sneer at any thing that is false, affected,
or absurd, in an indignant sarcasm at that which is base or evil, or
in petulant irritability at that which is weak.
As he now rode onward to rejoin those friends whom he had not seen for
nearly three years, accompanied by a companion who had never seen them
at all, the little world of his heart was in a strange commotion. All
the joy which an affectionate disposition can feel was rising up at
every point against the sway of cold propriety, and yet he tormented
himself with a thousand imaginary annoyances. Now he fancied that the
delight he felt and expressed was undignified, and might lower him in
the eyes of his companion; now he chose to doubt that his reception
from those he had left behind would be warm enough to justify the
exuberant pleasure that he himself experienced; while, keenly alive to
the slightest ridicule, he shrunk from the idea of exposing, even to
his dearest friend, one single spot in his heart to which the lash
could be applied.
"I was foolish," he thought, "not to leave Manners in London for a
day, and get all the joyful absurdities of a first welcome over before
he came down. However, my aunt would have it so; and it cannot be
avoided now."
As they proceeded, the purple of the evening died entirely away, and a
gray dimness fell over tree, and stream, and hill. Star by star looked
out, grew brighter and brighter, as the wandering ball on which we
travel through the inconceivable depth turned our hemisphere from the
superior light, and at length all was night.
In the lapse of ten minutes more, the road--which, winding about
between the hills and the stream, was forced often out of its true
direction,--had conducted them to a steep bank overhanging a wider
part of the valley, and here Colonel Manners divined--for he could
scarcely be said to see--that a scattered but considerable village lay
before them. Up and down the sides of the hill, a hundred twinkling
lights in cottage windows were sprinkled like glow-worms among the
darker masses of orchard and copsewood; and now and then, as the
travellers advanced, a bright glare suddenly flashed forth from some
opening door; and then again was as speedily extinguished, when the
entrance or the exit of the visiter was accomplished. Some watchful
dog, too, caught the sound of horses' feet, and, after one or two
desultory barks, set up his tongue into a continual peal. His
neighbours of the canine race took the signal, and--not at all unlike
the human species--ever inclined to clamour, yelped forth in concert,
whether they had heard or not the noise that roused their comrade's
indignation, so that the village was soon one continued roar with the
efforts of various hairy throats.
The salutation, however, was sweet to Edward de Vaux, for it spoke of
home--or at least of a dwelling that was dearer than any other home he
might possess; and, pausing a moment, he pointed onward to a spot,
where, on the edge of the hill beyond the village, might be seen,
cutting sharp upon the pale silvery gray of the western sky, the dark
outline of a large house, with a plentiful supply of chimneys, of an
architecture somewhat less light and fanciful than that of Palladio,
but very well suited to a dwelling in the land of peace and comfort.
"That is my aunt's house," said De Vaux, "and, though it is nearly
three miles by the road from the spot where that horseman passed us,
it is not much more than three-quarters of a mile by the path over the
hill. But that path," he added, "is impracticable for horses, or I
should certainly have risked breaking your neck, Manners, rather than
take this long tedious round."
Now, strange to say, the round that they had taken seemed longer and
more tedious to Edward de Vaux, when he came within sight of the
mansion which was to end his journey, than it had done at any other
moment of the ride. But so it was; and without inquiring into things
with which we have nothing to do, we may conclude that he felt some
of those vague, unreasonable doubts and apprehensions, which almost
every one experiences on the first view of one's home after a long
absence--those fears which are the very children of our hopes--that
anxiety which the uncertainty of human fate impresses upon our minds,
till we are sure that all is well. Who is there that has not gazed up
at his own dwelling-place as he returned from far, and asked himself,
with a sudden consciousness of the instability of all things, "Shall I
find nothing gone amiss? Has no misfortune trod that threshold? Has
disease or sorrow never visited it? Has death turned his steps aside?"
Whatever it was that Edward de Vaux felt, although the round seemed a
long one, and the time tedious that it had consumed, he yet drew in
his rein, not so as to bring his horse quite up, but to check him into
a walk; while he pointed out the house to his companion, and gazed at
its dark and distant mass himself. At that very moment, a single ray
glimmered in one of the windows, passed on into another, and then
three windows suddenly streamed forth with light. It looked like a
beacon to say that all was well; and though no man in the present day
cares a straw for things that in other years, when skilfully applied,
have won battles and overthrown dynasties--I mean omens--yet every man
has a silent, unacknowledged, foolish little system of augury of his
own; and Edward de Vaux and his companion, at the sight of this dexter
omen, set spurs to their horses, and rode merrily on their way.
CHAPTER II.
The reader, who loves variety, will not be displeased, perhaps, to
find that this story, leaving the two horsemen whom we have conducted
a short stage on their way, now turns to another of our characters not
less important to our tale.
In the same wood, which we have already described as clothing the
hills and skirting the road over which De Vaux and his companion were
travelling, but in a far more intricate part thereof than that into
which the reader's eye has hitherto penetrated, might be seen, at the
hour which we have chosen for the commencement of our tale, the figure
of a man creeping quietly, but quickly, along a path so covered by the
long branches of the underwood, that it could only be followed out by
one who knew well the deepest recesses of the forest.
This personage was spare in form, and without being tall, as compared
with other men, he was certainly tall in reference to his other
proportions. His arms were long and sinewy, his feet small, his ankles
well turned, and his whole body giving the promise of great activity,
though at a time of life when the agile pliancy of youth is generally
past and gone. He was dressed in an old brown long coat, "a world too
wide" for his spare form, so that, as he crept along with a quiet,
serpentine turning of his body, he looked like an eel in a great coat,
if the reader's imagination be vivid enough to call up such an image.
A hat, which had seen other days, and many of them, covered his brows;
but under that hat was a countenance, which, however ordinary might be
the rest of his appearance, redeemed the whole from the common herd.
The complexion spoke his race: it was of a pale, greenish tint,
without any rosier hue in the cheeks to enliven the pure gipsy colour
of his skin. His nose was small, and slightly aquiline, though of a
peculiar bend, forming, from the forehead to the tip, what Hogarth
drew for the line of beauty. The eyebrows were small, and pencilled
like a Circassian's, and the eyes themselves, shining through their
long, thick, black eyelashes, were full of deep light, and--to use a
very anomalous crowd of words--of wild, dark, melancholy fire. His
forehead was broad and high; and the long, soft, glossy, black hair
that fell in untrimmed profusion round his face had hardly suffered
from the blanching hand of time, although his age could not be less
than fifty-five or fifty-six, and might be more. His teeth, too, were
unimpaired, and of as dazzling a whiteness as if beetle and recca had
all possessed the properties their venders assert, and had all been
tried on them in their turn.
Such was his appearance, as, creeping along through the brushwood with
a stealthy motion, which would hardly have disturbed the deer from
their lair, he made his way towards the spot where we have seen that
his fellows were encamped. He was still far distant from it, however;
and although it was evident that he was, or had been, well acquainted
with the intricacies of the wood, yet it appeared that some leading
marks were necessary to guide him surely on his way; for, ever and
anon, when he could find a round knob of earth, raising itself above
the rest of the ground, he would climb it, and gaze for several
moments over the world of wood below him, rich in all the splendid
hues of autumn, and flooded by the purple light of the evening.
Ever, as he thus looked out, there might be seen a column of
bluish-white smoke rising from a spot at a mile's distance; and, after
towering up solemnly in the still air for several hundred feet,
spreading into light rolling clouds, and drifting among the wood.
Thitherward, again, he always turned his course; and any one who has
remarked the fondness of gipsies for a fire, even when they have no
apparent necessity for it, will little doubt that the smoke, or the
flame, serves them, on many occasions, for a signal or a guide.
As progression through thick bushes can never be very rapid, the
evening had faded nearly into twilight ere the gipsy reached the
encampment of his companions. The hearing of those whose safety often
depends upon the sharpness of their ears is, of course, sufficiently
acuminated by habit; and although his steps were, as we have shown,
stealthy enough, his approach did not escape the attention of the
party round the fire. We have seen that they had taken but little
apparent notice of the two travellers, who had passed them about a
quarter of an hour before; but the sound of quiet footsteps from the
side of the wood, the moving of the branches, and the slight rustle of
the autumn leaves, caused a far greater sensation. Two or three of the
stoutest started instantly on their feet, and watched the spot whence
those sounds proceeded, as if not quite sure what species of visiter
the trees might conceal. The moment after, however, the figure we have
described, emerging into the more open part of the wood, seemed to
satisfy his comrades that there was no cause for apprehension; and
those who had risen turned towards the others, saying, "It is
Pharold," in a tone which, without expressing much pleasure, at all
events announced no alarm.
Several of the young gipsies sprang up, shaking their many-coloured
rags--for, like the goddess of the painted bow, their clothing was
somewhat motley--and ran on to meet the new comer; while the elder
members of the respectable assemblage congregated under the oaks,
though they did not show the same alacrity, perhaps, as the younger
and more volatile of the party, received him with an air in which
reverence was mingled with a slight touch of sullenness.
"Who has passed since I left you, William?" was the first question of
the gipsy on his return, addressing one of the young men who had been
lying nearer than the others to the high-road, and by whose side
appeared, as he rose, a most portentous cudgel.
"A woman with eggs from the market; three labourers from the fields; a
gamekeeper, who damned us all, and said, if he had his will, he would
rid the country of us: and two gentlemen on horseback, who gave Leena
a shilling," was the accurate reply of the young gipsy, whose face, we
must remark, assumed not the most amiable expression that ever face
put on, as he recorded the comments of the gamekeeper upon his race
and profession. The other, who has been called Pharold, at first paid
no attention to any part of the account, except the apparition of the
two gentlemen on horseback; but in regard to them, he asked many a
question--were they old or young--what was their appearance--their
size--their apparent profession?
To all these inquiries he received such correct and minute replies, as
showed that the seeming indifference with which the gipsy had regarded
the two travellers was anything but real; and that every particular of
their dress and circumstances which eye could reach or inference
arrive at, had been carefully marked, and, as it were, written down on
memory.
The language which the gipsies spoke among themselves was a barbarous
compound of some foreign tongue, the origin and structure of which
has, and most likely ever will, baffle inquiry, and of English,
mingled with many a choice phrase from the very expressive jargon
called slang. Thus, when the gipsy spoke of gentlemen he called them
_raye_, when he spoke of the peasant, he termed him _gazo_: but as the
gipsy tongue may, probably, be not very edifying to the reader, the
conversation of our characters shall continue to be carried on in a
language which is more generally intelligible.
The account rendered by the young man, however, did not seem
satisfactory to the elder, who twice asked if that were all; and then
made some more particular inquiries concerning the gamekeeper who had
expressed such friendly sentiments towards his tribe.
"Keep a good watch, my boys," he said, after musing for a moment or
two on the answers he received; "keep a good watch. There is danger
stirring abroad; and I fear that we shall be obliged to lift our
tents, and quit this pleasant nook."
"The sooner we quit it the better, I say," cried the beldam who had
been tending the pot. "What the devil we do here at all, I don't know.
Why, we are wellnigh four miles from a farm yard, and five from the
village; and how you expect us to get food I don't understand."
"Are there not plenty of rabbits and hares in the wood?" said the
other, in reply; "I saw at least a hundred run as I crossed just now."
"But one cannot eat brown meat for ever," rejoined the dame; "and tiny
Dick was obliged to go five miles for the turkey in the pot; and then
had very near been caught in nimming it off the edge of the common."
"Well, give me the brown meat for my share," answered Pharold; "I will
eat none of the white things that they have fattened and fed up with
their hoarded corn, and have watched early and late, like a sick
child. Give me the free beast that runs wild, and by nature's law
belongs to no one but him who catches it."
"No, no, Pharold, you must have your share of turkey too," cried the
old lady; for although it may appear strange, yet as there is honour
among thieves, so there may be sometimes that sort of generosity among
gipsies which led the good dame who, on the present occasion, presided
over the pot--though, to judge by her size and proportions, and to
gauge her appetite by the Lavater standard of her mouth, she could
have eaten the whole turkey of which she spoke herself--which led her,
I say, to press Pharold to his food with hospitable care, declaring
that he was a "king of a fellow, though somewhat whimsical."
The gipsies now drew round their fire, and scouts being thrown out
on either side to guard against interruption, the pot was unswung
from the cross bars that sustained it, trenchers and knives were
produced, and, with nature's green robe for a table-cloth, a plentiful
supper of manifold good things was spread before the race of
wanderers. Nor was the meal unjoyous, nor were their figures--at all
times picturesque--without an appearance of loftier beauty and more
symmetrical grace, as, reclining on triclinia of nature's providing,
with the fire and the evening twilight casting strange lights upon
them, they fell into those free and easy attitudes which none but the
children of wild activity can assume. The women of the party had all
come forth from their huts, and among them were two or three lovely
creatures as any race ever produced, from the chosen Hebrew to the
beauty-dreaming Greek. In truth, there seemed more women than men of
the tribe, and there certainly were more children than either; but due
subordination was not wanting; and the urchins who were ranged behind
the backs of the rest, though they wanted not sufficient food,
intruded not upon the circle of their elders.
Scarcely, however, had the first mouthfuls been swallowed, and the cup
passed its round, when the farthest scout--a boy of about twelve years
of age--ran in, and whispered the mystical words, "A horse's feet!"
"One--or more than one?" was the instant question of Pharold, while
his companions busied themselves in shovelling away the principal
portions of their supper, and leaving nothing but what might pass for
very frugal fare indeed. "Only one!" replied the boy, running back to
his post; and the next instant another report was made to the effect,
that a single horseman was coming up the road at full speed, together
with such personal marks and appearances as the dim obscurity of the
hour permitted the scouts to observe. All this, be it remarked, was
carried on with both speed and quietude. The motions of the scouts
were all as stealthy as those of a cat over a dewy green, and their
words were all whispered; but their steps were quick, and their words
were few and rapid.
The motions of the horseman, however, were not less speedy; and ere
much counsel could be taken, he was upon the road, exactly abreast of
the spot where the gipsies' fire was lighted. There he drew in his
reins at once; and, springing to the ground, called aloud to one of
the boys, who was acting sentinel, bidding him hold his horse.
"It is he!" said Pharold, "it is he!" and, rising from the turf, he
turned to meet the stranger, who, on his part, approached directly to
the fire, and at once held out his hand to the gipsy. Pharold took it,
and wrung it hard, and then stood gazing upon the countenance of the
stranger, as the fitful firelight flashed upon it, while his visiter
fixed his eyes with equal intensity upon the dark features of the
gipsy; and each might be supposed to contemplate the effect of time's
blighting touch upon the face of the other, and apply the chilling
tidings such an examination always yields to his own heart.
It is probable, indeed, that such was really the case; for the first
words of the gipsy were, "Ay, we are both changed indeed!"
"We are so, truly, Pharold," replied the stranger; "so many years
cannot pass without change. But did my last letter reach you?"
"It did," replied the gipsy, "and I have done all that you required."
"Did you obtain a sight of him?" demanded the other, eagerly.
"I did," answered the gipsy, "in the park, as he walked alone--I
leaped the wall, and--"
Hitherto, all those first hurried feelings which crowd upon us, when,
after a long lapse of years, we meet again with some one whom
circumstances have connected closely with us in the past, had
prevented the gipsy and his companion from remarking--or rather from
remembering--the presence of so many witnesses. In the midst of what
he was saying, however, the eye of Pharold glanced for a moment from
the face of his companion to the circle by the fire, and he suddenly
stopped. The other understood his motive at once, and replied, "True,
true; let us come away for a moment, for I must hear it all."
"Of course," answered Pharold, "though you will hear much, perhaps,
that you would rather not hear. But come, let us go into the road; we
shall be farther there from human ears than anywhere else."
As they walked towards the highway both were silent; for there is not
such a dumb thing on the face of the earth as deep emotion; and for
some reason, which may, or may not, be explained hereafter, both the
stranger and the gipsy were more moved by their meeting in that spot
than many less firm spirits have been on occasions of more apparent
importance.
After thus walking on without a word for two or three hundred yards,
the gipsy abruptly resumed his speech. "Well, well," he said, "when we
are young we think of the future, and when we are old we think of the
past; and, by my fathers, there is no use of thinking of either! We
cannot change what is coming, nor mend what is gone; but, as I was
saying, I have seen him: I found that he walked every day in the park
by himself, and I watched his hour from behind the wall, and saw him
come up the long avenue that leads to the west gate--you remember it?"
"Well, well," answered the other; "but how did he look?--Tell me,
Pharold, how did he look?"
"Dark enough, and gloomy," answered the gipsy: "he came with his hands
behind his back, and his hat over his brows, and his eyes bent upon
the ground; and ever as he walked onward, his white teeth--for he has
fine teeth still--gnawed his under lip; and, for my part, if my
solitary walk were every day to be like that, I would not walk at all;
but would rather lie me down by the roadside and die at once. Well
then, often too as he came, he would stop and fix his eyes upon one
particular pebble in the gravel, and stare at it, as if it had been
enchanted; and then, with a great start, would look behind him to see
if there was anyone watching his gloomy ways; or would suddenly
whistle, as if for his dogs, though he had no dog with him."
His companion drew a deep sigh, and then asked, "But how seemed he in
health, Pharold? Is he much changed? He was once as strong a man as
any one could see--does he still seem vigorous and well?"
"You would not know him," replied the gipsy, and was going on, but the
other broke in vehemently.
"Not know him? That I would!" he exclaimed, "though age might have
whitened his hair and dimmed his eye--though suffering might have
shrivelled his flesh and bowed his stature--though death itself, and
corruption in its train, might have wrought for days upon him, I would
know him so long as the dust held together.--What, Pharold, not know
him?--_I_ not know _him?_"
"Well, well," answered the gipsy, "I meant that he was changed--far,
far more changed than you are--you were a young man when last we met,
at least in your prime of strength, and now you are an old one, that
is all. But he--he does not seem aged but blighted. It is not like a
flower that has blown, and bloomed, and withered, but one that with a
worm in its heart has shrunk, and shrivelled, and faded. He is
yellower than I am, though I gain my colour from a long race who
brought it centuries ago from a land of sunshine, and he has got it in
less than twenty years from the scorching of a heart on fire. He is
bent, too; and his features are as thin as a heron's bill."
"Sad--sad--sad," said his companion; "but how could it be otherwise?
Well, what more? Tell me what happened when you met him? Did he know
you?"
"At once," answered the gipsy; "no, no; I have seen one of my tribe
with a hot iron and an oaken board make painting of men's faces that
no water could wash out; and none should know better than you, that my
face has been burnt in upon his heart in such a way that it would take
a river of tears to sweep away the marks of it. But let me tell my
tale. When I saw that he was near, I sprang over the wall into the
walk, and stood before him at once. When first he saw me he started
back, as if it had been a snake that crossed him; but the moment
after, I could see him recollect himself; and I knew that he was
calculating whether to own he knew me, or to affect forgetfulness. He
chose the first, and asked mildly enough what I did there. 'I thought
you were out of the kingdom,' he said, 'and had promised Sir William
Ryder never to return.' I replied that he said true, and that I had
not returned till Sir William Ryder had told me to do so."
"What said he then?" asked the other, eagerly; "what said he to that?"
"He started," replied the gipsy, "and then muttered something about a
villain and betraying him; but the moment after, as you must have seen
him to do long ago, he gathered himself up, and looking as proud and
stern as if the lives of a whole world were at his disposal, he asked,
what was Sir William Ryder's motive in bidding me return. 'Some motive
of course, he has,' he added, looking at me bitterly. 'Does he intend
to play villain, or fool, or both,--for whatever folly his knavery may
tempt him to commit, he will only injure himself; for at this time of
day it is somewhat too late to try to injure _me_;' and as he spoke,"
continued the gipsy, "he nodded his head gravely but meaningly, as if
he would have said, 'You know that I speak truth.'"
The lip of the stranger curled as his companion related this part of a
conversation in which he seemed to take no slight interest; but as we
do not choose to know any thing of what was passing in his bosom, we
must leave that somewhat bitter smile to interpret itself.
"I told him," continued the gipsy, "as you directed me, that his
friend stood in some need of five thousand pounds, and trusting to his
lordship's kindness and generosity, had directed me to come back and
apply to him for that sum. So when he heard that, his face grew very
dark; and after thinking for a minute of two, he looked up two of the
walks, for he stood in the crossing, to see if he could see any of the
park-keepers, to give me into their hands--I know that was what he
wanted. However there was no one there; and he answered, looking at me
as if he would have withered me into dust, 'Tell Sir William Ryder,
wherever he is, that he shall ring no more from me. I have sent him
his thousand a year regularly, and if any of the packets missed him,
he should have let me know; but I will be no sponge to be squeezed by
any man's pleasure; nor do I care,' he went on, 'who conspires to
bring any false accusation against me. I am prepared to meet every
charge boldly, and to prove my innocence before the whole world, if
any one dare to accuse me.' He spoke very firmly," added the gipsy;
"and as long as he continued speaking I kept my eyes upon the ground,
though I felt that his were bent upon me: but the moment he had done,
I raised mine and looked full upon his face, and his lip quivered and
his eye fell in a moment."
"Did he hold his resolution of refusing?" demanded the other, over
whose countenance, as he listened, had been passing emotions as
various as those which the gipsy had depicted; "did he hold his
resolution to the end?"
"Firmly!" replied Pharold, "though he softened his tone a great deal
towards me. He said he was only angry with Sir William Ryder, not with
me, and asked where I had been during so many years; and when I told
him in Ireland, he replied, that it was a poor country: I could not
have made much money there; and then he talked of other days, when the
old lord took me to the hall because I was a handsome boy, and kept me
for two years and more, and would have had me educated; and he vowed I
did mighty wrong to run away and join my own people again; and he took
out his purse and gave me all that it contained, and was sorry that it
was no more; but if I would tell him, he said, where we were lying, he
would send me more, for old acquaintance sake; and all the while he
talked to me he looked up the walks to see if he could see the
park-keepers, to have me taken up, and to accuse me of robbing him, or
of some such thing. I could see it all in his eye; and so I told him
that we were lying five miles to the east; and took leave of him
civily, and came away, laughing that he should think I was fool enough
to fancy he and I could ever do anything but hate each other to our
dying day."
His companion mused for several minutes; and even when he did speak,
he took no notice either of the gipsy's suspicions or of the news he
gave him, but rather,--as one sometimes does when one wishes any thing
just heard to mature itself in the mind, ere further comment be made
upon it,--he linked on what he next said, to that part of Pharold's
speech which might have seemed the least interesting, namely, the
gipsy's own history; and yet, although he certainly did this, in order
to avoid, for the time, the most important parts of his narrative, he
did not do it with the commonplace tone of one who speaks of feelings
with which he has no sympathy: on the contrary, he spoke with warmth,
and kindness, and enthusiasm; and expressed profound regret that the
gipsy had, in his boyhood, thrown away advantages so seldom held out
to one of his tribe.
"Why? why?" cried the gipsy, "why should you grieve? I did but what
you have done yourself. I quitted a life of sloth, effeminacy, and
bondage, for one of ease, freedom, and activity. I left false forms,
unnatural restraints, enfeebling habits--ay! and sickness too, for the
customs of my fathers, for man's native mode of life, for a continual
existence in the bosom of beautiful nature, and for blessed health. We
know no sickness but that which carries us to our grave; we feel no
vapours; we know no nerves. Go, ask the multitude of doctors,--a curse
which man's own luxurious habits have brought upon him,--go, ask your
doctor's whether a gipsy be not to be envied, for his exemption from
the plagues that punish other men's effeminate habits."
"True, Pharold! true!" replied his companion; "but still, even the
short time that you lived in other scenes must have given your mind a
taste for very different enjoyments from those that you can now find.
You must have seen the beauty of law and order; you must have learned
to delight in mental pleasures; you must long for the society of those
of equal intellect and knowledge with yourself."
"And do I not find them?" cried the gipsy, warming in defence of his
race; "to be sure I do. Think not that we have none among us as
learned and as thoughtful as yourselves, though in another way. But
you cannot understand us. You think that it is in our habits alone
that we are different; but, remember, that when you speak to a true
gipsy, who follows exactly the path of his fathers, you speak to one
different in race, and creed, and mind, and feeling, and law, and
philosophy, from you and yours. You think us all ignorant, and either
bound as drudges to some low rejected trade, or plundering others,
because we do not comprehend the excellence of laws. But let me tell
you again, that there are men among us deeply read in sciences which
you know not; speaking well a language, for a hundred words of which
your schools have laboured long years in vain. Have we not laws, too,
of our own? laws better observed than your boasted codes? But you
choose to doubt that we have them, because we put you beyond our code,
as you put us beyond yours. When was ever justice shown to a gipsy?
and therefore we look upon you as things to pillage. You speak, too,
of the pleasures of the mind. Do you think my mind finds no exercise
in scenes like these? I walk hand in hand with the seasons through the
world. Winter, your enemy, is my friend and companion. Gladly do I see
him come, with his white mantle, through the bare woods and over the
brown hills. I watch the budding forth of spring, too, and her light
airs and changing skies, as I would the sports of a beloved child. I
hail the majestic summer, as if the God of my own land had come to
visit our race, even here; and in the yellow autumn, too, with the
rich fruit and the fading leaf, I have a comrade full of calmer
thoughts. The sunrise, and the sunset, and the midday, to me, are all
eloquence. The storm, the stream, the clouds, the wind, for me have
each a voice. I talk with the bright stars as they wander through the
deep sky, and I listen to the sun and moon, as they sing along their
lonely pilgrimage. Is not this enough? What need I more than nature?"
Perhaps his companion, whose mind was in no degree wanting in
acuteness, might imagine that in all the very enjoyments which the
gipsy enumerated, as well as in the tone he used, were to be traced
some remains of a better education than that of his race in general;
and might believe, that had that education been continued, every
pleasure that he felt would have been doubled by refinement. But all
this came upon his mind as impression rather than as thought; and the
reader will please to observe, that there is an immense difference
between the two. The truth was, that ever since the conversation had
turned to the gipsy himself, his companion had been doing what is
oftener done than the world imagines; that is to say, talking without
thinking, and listening without attending. In short, he was thinking
of other things; and yet, as we have said, he spoke with kindness, and
zeal, and real feeling; but the fact is, that the language he was
talking was memory. Years before, he had come to the same conclusions,
and held the same arguments in his own mind, regarding the very person
in whose company he was now once more; so that--having, in all the
news he had heard, greater calls upon present thought than he could
well satisfy,--as soon as the gipsy began to speak of gipsy-life, he
turned that topic over to memory, well knowing that she had a
plentiful stock of ideas prepared to supply any demand upon such a
subject; while intellect went on, quietly thinking of himself and of
the present. This plan, when skilfully executed, has a collateral
advantage, which, by-the-way, is often turned into a principal one;
namely, that while you let memory go on with the conversation--unless
she trips, or something of that kind--your companion does not perceive
that you are thinking at all; and thus the stranger, apparently
listened to, and took part in the gipsy's conversation about himself,
while his inner soul was busy, most busy, with the other tidings which
he had received. By the time that the enumeration of wild pleasures,
afforded by a wandering life was over, he had settled his plans in his
own mind; and, breaking off the subject there, demanded abruptly,--
"When, Pharold--tell me, when did you see him?"
He mentioned no name; and the gipsy, at once dropping the high and
enthusiastic tone in which he had been speaking, answered, as to a
common question, "It was but to-day--not four hours ago, or you had
not found me here."
"And why not?" demanded the other. "Whither would you go?"
"Far away," answered the gipsy, "far away! I love not his
neighbourhood; nor is it safe for me and mine. He thinks evil against
us, and he will not be long ere he tries to bring his thoughts to
pass."
"But he cannot injure you," replied the other; "in all the things
wherein you and he have borne a part, he has more cause to fear you
than you have to fear him."
"True! true!" said the gipsy; "and yet I love not his neighbourhood. I
may have done things in this land in my youth, when passion and
revenge were strong, and wisdom and forbearance weak, that I should
little like to have investigated in my middle age. Not that I fear for
myself; for, from the dark leap that all men must take, I have never
shrunk through life. But I fear the sorrow of those that would weep
for me, and the unjust mingling of the innocent with the guilty, for
which your laws are infamous."
His companion mused for a moment; and then, laying his hand upon the
arm of the gipsy, he replied, in a tone where kindness mingled with
authority: "Mark me, Pharold!" said he; "you know that I am not one
either to counsel you amiss, or to fall from you at a moment of need:
base, indeed, should I be, were I to do so, after all you have done
for me. But my resolutions are not yet fixed--my mind is not yet
made up; and I must hear more, and examine deeply, ere I execute my
half-formed purpose. Still you have no cause to fear; call upon me
whenever you need me; and, in the meantime, if you please, you can
remove from the spot where you now are, but not so far that I cannot
find you, for you must help me to the end of all this."
"To the common, at the back of Mrs. Falkland's woods?" asked the
gipsy: "they will hardly seek us there."
"As good a spot as any," replied his companion; "and in the case of
necessity, Pharold, here, I have written down where you may always
find me in this immediate neighbourhood; remembering, in the meantime,
all that you have promised."
"I have promised--I have promised!" replied the gipsy; "and you never
knew me break my word. But what is this you give me with the paper? I
want not gold--and from you, William."
"But your people may," replied the other; "take it, take it, Pharold;
it is never useless in such a life as yours."
"I will take it," answered the gipsy, "because it may give me more
control over my people; for although among our nation there are men
whose minds you little dream of, yet these I have here are not,
perhaps, of the best,--not that they are evil either; but wild, and
headstrong, and rash--as I was myself, when I was young."
They had already turned in their walk, and were now re-approaching the
fire, round which the gipsies were gathered. Their conversation had
not been without its share of interest to either, and each had much
matter for reflection: so that--as thought is not that which makes a
man speak, but that which keeps him silent--they advanced without
another word to the spot where the stranger's horse stood. It was a
fine powerful animal, of great bone and blood; but it was standing
like a lamb in the hands of a little boy, while the beautiful girl,
whom we have mentioned as accosting the other travellers, now stood
stroking his proud neck, and examining the accoutrements with a care
that some people might have thought suspicious. As Pharold and his
companion returned, however, she sprung away to the rest of her tribe
with a step as light as the moonshine on the sea.
"She is very beautiful," said the stranger, whose eye had rested on
her for a moment; "who is she, Pharold?"
"She is my wife!" replied the gipsy, abruptly.
His companion shook his head with a sigh, and putting his foot in the
stirrup, mounted his horse, and rode away.
CHAPTER III.
While such events as have just been described were passing in the
wood, the two travellers whom we first brought before the reader, and
to whom we must now return, rode on; but begging leave to pass over
all their farther journey, as it did not consist of more than half a
mile, we may bring them safe to the gate of the very house, whose
lights and shadows they had seen from the slope above the village.
By this time it was as dark as could well be desired. It was not
exactly Egyptian darkness, for there was nothing in it that could be
_felt_, but the sun was gone entirely; and the last fringe of his
golden robe had swept the sky some time. The moon was not yet up, so
that the stars had the sky all to themselves; but though they were
shining as brightly as they did many a thousand years ago, when they
were first sent glittering into the depths of space, they did very
little to show the travellers their way.
Edward de Vaux, indeed, had taken it into his head to go to the back
entrance of his aunt's house. But the truth is, he had worked himself
up, as he came along, into a belief that there might be some fuss made
upon his return, and had conjured up before his imagination everything
that might or could possibly occur, in which there was the least smack
of ridicule; although all the time he knew perfectly well that his
companion was of too generous and feeling a disposition even to dream
that anything was ridiculous which sprung from the heart. He well
knew, also, that those he was about to meet were by education, and
habit, and natural character, the last persons in the world to do or
say anything that was not graceful and _bienseant_. But still, as his
imagination was not the most tractable imagination in the world, but
roved hither and thither, whether he liked it or not, on all
occasions, he could not get the better of her in the present instance;
and therefore, in order that everything in the way of reception might
pass as quietly and as quickly as possible, he rode up to the gate of
the back court, and after feeling about for the bell for some time, he
rang for admittance.
After a little delay, a coachman with a powdered wig, and three rows
of curls round his ears, opened the gates with a lantern in his hand,
and demanded what the strangers wanted; but without other reply, De
Vaux rode into the yard with his companion, and springing to the
ground, exposed his well-known face to the glare of the lantern and
the wondering eyes of old Joseph, the immemorial coachman, who,
bursting forth into a loud exclamation, called vehemently to the
groom, and the helper, and the stable-boy. "The oaken doors returned a
brazen sound!" and not only those that the old curly-wigged official
of the hammercloth called to his aid appeared with ready promptitude,
but eke a footman emerged from the passage of the servants'-hall, and
two or three pippin-faced housemaids were seen "peeping from forth the
alleys green" beyond.
Thus, as usual, De Vaux's precaution in regard to not making a bustle
had, in fact, the very contrary effect in the house itself. But this
was not all: his method of proceeding had the very contrary effect
with his companion, also, to that which he had purposed. Colonel
Manners certainly did think, in the first instance, that such an
entrance was a somewhat strange one for the house he saw before him;
and when he found that it was in truth the stable-yard into which he
had been taken, he thought the conduct of his friend still stranger.
But by this time Charles Manners had known Edward de Vaux too long not
to have some slight insight into his character and into the weaknesses
thereof; and as they had ridden along together upon that day's
journey, various little traits, which might have escaped any but a
very keen and a very friendly eye, had given him the key of his
friend's feelings on his return--a key which he did not fail to apply
on the present occasion. The result was, that he soon comprehended the
general motives of De Vaux, though perhaps not all the little ins and
outs of the business--ins and outs, by-the-way, which depended as much
upon the plan and architecture of the house, and upon the fact of the
first landing of the grand staircase leading at once into the little
ante-room of the drawing-room, so that the voice and step of any one
ascending could be recognised instantly, as upon anything else in the
world.
A slight smile curled Colonel Manners's lip as he perceived what had
been passing in his friend's mind; but he would not have had that
smile seen for any recompense that could have been offered to him,
unless it had been that of curing his friend of a folly. But he knew
very well that De Vaux was not a man to be laughed out of anything on
earth; and that, with all his sensibility to ridicule, it was only so
long as the sneer was silent and suppressed that he cared anything
about it. The moment that the laugh was open, his pride took arms to
defend the position which he occupied, and every one knows that pride
would always rather blow up the place than capitulate.
Colonel Manners did, indeed, wish that his friend could be taught,
with the same sort of bold determination which he displayed in
opposing the loud laugh, to despise the silent sneer, which is as
often excited in the minds of the worldlings by traits of a good and
noble nature as by folly or by awkwardness: but he knew that the only
lessons he would receive upon the subject would be gentle ones, spoken
by the voice of friendship, without a touch of sarcasm.
"It is a pity, a great pity," thought he, "that De Vaux, who affects
to, and perhaps really does, despise the opinion of the general fool,
should thus, as it were, make himself a slave to the laugh of his own
fancy. I hope and trust that his fair future bride may have influence
enough to school him from these weaknesses."
Such was all his comment; and by the time it was made their horses
were in safe hands, and a footman, as antique as the coachman, was
leading the way up the back stairs towards the drawing-room.
De Vaux was somewhat uneasy at the back stairs, and at a distant
prospect of the kitchen, and the servants' hall, and the housekeeper's
room; but Manners, though he saw it all, appeared to see nothing,
rubbed his boot with his riding-whip, and talked of North America
with all the zeal and volubility of a Mohawk. His companion was
relieved; and following the fat legs and white stockings of the old
footman up the narrow staircase, they were soon in a small lobby which
led into the drawing-room. Soft Turkey carpets covered the floor of
the lobby; against each of the piers stood a small antique table of
tortoise-shell and brass; and in the deep recesses of the windows were
placed those immense and beautiful china jars which formed the glory
of our great-grandmothers. These again were filled with a composition
of all the sweet-scented leaves gathered from the garden during the
past year; and which, mingled with orris-root and many a fragrant
spice, diffused through the whole air a rich perfume of the eighteenth
century.
But there was music upon the air of this bower as well as perfume. It
was the music, however, of a sweet, low-toned woman's voice, speaking
some sentences of which nothing could be distinguished but the melody.
Nevertheless, it made the fitful colour come up for a moment in the
cheek of Edward de Vaux; and whether his heart beat more quickly, or
whether it maintained its even pulse, is a problem which we shall
leave others to solve; for, the next moment, the door was thrown open,
and the visiters all silently and unannounced entered the room.
It was a large handsome chamber, fitted up as unlike a modern
drawing-room as possible. There was nothing in it of the last
fashion, even of that day; but all was comfortable, and all bespoke
both taste and affluence. On the walls were a few cabinet pictures,
which at first appeared dark and dingy, but which, when any one
looked farther, turned out gems; and on the rich and massive marble
mantel-piece--which was itself nearly equal in size, and quite equal
in value, to a house in a modern square--were placed pagodas, and
feather fans, and screens, and many a little curiosity from different
parts of the world--bracelets that might have clasped the arm of
Cleopatra, and idols that had been acquainted with Captain Cook. The
room, like every clever room, had a great number of tables of all
sorts and sizes; and at two of these tables, not with hospitable cares
intent, but very busy with that sort of idleness which ladies call
work, sat two fair dames, who, in point of age, might divide between
them the apportioned years of man. The division of those seventy
years, however, was very unequal, as the one nearest the door had
monopolized at least forty-six of them to herself, and had left
her daughter--for such was the other lady--not much more than
twenty-three. They were both very handsome women nevertheless; the
mother feeling her years as light as a young king's crown, and the
daughter, in addition to a very beautiful person, and a face where all
that is fine was softened by all that is pleasing, having the advantage
of youth and all youth's graces. There was one peculiarity in her
countenance, which, as it had something to do with her mind, may
as well be noticed. It was one of those faces which love not
clouds--which smile where others frown; and as she sat with her eyes
bent upon a provoking knot in her work, which for the last ten minutes
had defied all her efforts to disentangle it, she was still
half-laughing at the perversity of the silk, which seemed to take a
pleasure in baffling her.
There was a third person in the drawing-room, younger than either, and
very different from both. As she lay upon a sofa at the other side of
the room, with a book in her hand, and her eyes bent upon the pages,
the light of the lamp falling at the same time from above upon her
clear fair forehead, on her beautiful eyelids with their long dark
eyelashes, and on the marble white chiselling of her nose and upper
lip, she did not appear to be more than eighteen; but her real age,
which we are bound to give, was twenty years, eleven months, and a few
days, the exact number of which is forgotten. Her form was light and
beautiful, and though those who did not love her might contend that
she was certainly not equal to the Medicean Venus, yet she was a great
deal more graceful than many another goddess, and as fair a specimen
of the fairest of earth's creatures as the eye of man has ever seen
since Eve's ill-fated experiment in Eden.
Her hair was of that glossy golden brown, which is so beautiful and so
seldom seen; and as the whole party had given up the expectation of
their visiters for that night, she had turned back the shining curls
which would have fallen into her eyes while reading; so that, with a
wavy line on either side, they left her fair forehead bare, and formed
a bunch of ringlets behind each ear, that might have defied the chisel
of a Chantry.
As the door which admitted De Vaux and his companion was that which
led to the back staircase, the party in the drawing-room concluded,
naturally enough, that it was opened by one of the domestics on some
of the many motives or pretexts upon which a servant can visit the
drawing-room. No one took any notice, no one looked up; and the fair
girl upon the sofa went on commenting upon the book in her hand,
without knowing that any one was listening to her gentle criticism.
Thus each of the two visiters had time to make their own observations,
if they chose it. A bright pleased smile lighted up the rough features
of Colonel Manners, as he was thus at once admitted, without the help
of an Asmodeous into the very heart of an English domestic circle, to
each member of which he was a stranger. To him it was a sight full of
pleasure and interest; it was a sight that he had seldom seen even
when in England, and which he had not seen at all for several years
while serving abroad: but it was one which fancy had often renewed for
him in his solitary wanderings, which had been painted to his eye in
the still night, and in the tented field on distant shores, which had
been to him a dream, whereunto imagination could cling without the
apprehension of disappointment; for he had ever thought of it as a
thing whereof he might be the spectator, but never a sharer in its
dearer ties.
As for Edward de Vaux, he _did not_ choose to make any observations on
the scene at all, for more fastidious in anticipation than in reality,
the moment he was in the midst of his domestic circle a host of bright
warm feelings rose up at once in his heart, and trampled every cold
calculation of Chesterfieldism beneath their feet. Passing the old
servant, who was himself amused to see the unconsciousness of the
party in the drawing-room, De Vaux at once advanced towards the fair
girl on the sofa. But there was a sound in his step different from
that of any of the servants, which only let him pass half across the
room ere her eyes were raised from the book and fell upon him. The
sight instantly called into them a gleam as bright as sunshine after a
storm, and the warm, eloquent blood rose into her cheek and brow,
while with a voice of unquestionable icy, she exclaimed, "Edward! My
dear aunt, here is Edward!"
The next moment, however, the light of her glance faded away, the
blood ebbed back from her cheek, and from that moment it was scarcely
perceivable that Edward de Vaux was anything more to her than an
intimate friend. It was all the work of an instant, and Colonel
Manners had only time to think, "This is all very odd!" ere the other
two ladies rose to welcome his companion and himself; while the one
who had spoken, gracefully but composedly drew her small foot from the
sofa to the ground, and advanced to meet her lover; contriving to
execute what is sometimes a difficult man[oe]uvre, without showing
half an inch of her ankle, though it might very well have borne the
display.
The elder lady now of course took the lead, and expressed her joy at
the return of her nephew, in a manner which showed how compatible real
dignity and grace are with every zealous and kindly feeling. "And
this," she said the next moment, "is of course Colonel Manners; though
you have not introduced him to me, Edward; but Colonel Manners indeed
requires no introduction here; for allow me to say, my dear sir, that
even were it not that you had saved the life of my nephew, and
rendered him so many inestimable services, the son of your mother, who
was my dear and early friend, would always be the most welcome of
guests at my fire-side."
Colonel Manners bowed, and replied, "I have been lucky enough to find
among my mother's papers, madam, the letters of the Honourable Mrs.
Falkland; and am aware how fortunate in a friend my parent was during
the greater part of her short life. Most proud shall I be if the son
may merit some portion of the same regard which you bestowed upon the
mother."
"You already command it, Colonel Manners," she replied:
"Isadore,--Marian--Colonel Manners! My daughter--my niece, Miss De
Vaux."
Now this introduction puzzled Colonel Manners a good deal, for reasons
which may as well be explained. He had heard long before, while
abroad, that his friend Edward de Vaux, the only son of Lord Dewry,
was affianced to his cousin, and that their marriage was to take place
as soon as the young heir of the barony could return to his native
country, provided that the lady were by that time of age. In the
course of their intimacy in other lands, De Vaux had often spoken of
his fair cousin Marian, and had indeed on their return besought
Colonel Manners to accompany him down to the house of his aunt, in
order to act the part of bridesman at his wedding, which was to take
place immediately. With this request we have seen that he complied;
but he had completely made up his mind to the belief that his friend
was about to be united to the daughter of Mrs. Falkland, and he was
now surprised to find a Miss De Vaux, towards whom the manner of
Edward de Vaux was not exactly that which men assume towards their
sisters. Besides, her name was Marian, that of his promised bride; and
although this discovery, leaping over the head of all his own
preconceptions, puzzled Colonel Manners for a moment, he soon set it
all to rights in his own mind, by supposing, what was in fact the
truth, that the fair girl we have described was the daughter of Lord
Dewry's brother.
All the while he was settling this to his own satisfaction, he was
going through the manual of politeness, and doing De Vaux the favour
of talking to Mrs. Falkland and her daughter, while the lover spoke in
a lower tone to the other fair cousin. Whatever he said, however,
seemed to have no very great effect upon her. She smiled, and seemed
to answer him kindly and affectionately; but she displayed no further
sign of that agitation which a girl in her situation might be expected
to feel on the return of her lover from a long and dangerous
expedition. Once, indeed, she laid her hand upon the table near her,
and Colonel Manners saw that, notwithstanding the general composure
which she seemed to feel, that hand trembled so much, that, as if
conscious its tremour might be perceived, she instantly withdrew it,
and suffered her arm to fall gracefully by her side.
Manners marked all this, for from their first acquaintance De Vaux had
interested him, as much perhaps by the contrast of the little foibles
of his character with the greater and nobler qualities it possessed,
as by any other circumstance: he had gradually suffered a deep regard
for him to rise up in his heart; he had permitted imagination to
indulge herself with bright pictures of his friend's domestic
happiness; and in every little trait connected therewith he had a sort
of personal feeling, which made him seek to discover all that he
wished might be.
After standing booted and spurred in the middle of the room for about
ten minutes, and having learned that their servants had arrived with
their baggage early in the morning of the same day, the two gentlemen
retired to cast off their travelling costume, and attire themselves in
apparel more suited to the drawing-room. Colonel Manners proceeded to
the task systematically; and although he knew that nothing on earth
could ever make him handsome, yet he took every reasonable pains with
his dress, and was soon ready to descend again, with that neat, clean,
soldier-like appearance for which he was particularly distinguished.
De Vaux acted differently, as may well be supposed, and giving his man
the keys of the trunk-mails, he cast himself on a chair; and, with his
arms leaning on the dressing-table, remained for full ten minutes in
deep and somewhat melancholy thought, while the servant continued to
torment him every other minute, with--"Sir, do you want this?" or,
"Sir, shall I do that?"
Into his private thoughts we shall not at present pry, although we
consider that we have a right to do so whenever the necessities of the
tale may demand it; but in this instance it is only requisite to give
the ending reflection of his revery, which may serve as a key to all
the rest. "How cold Manners must have thought her reception of me! and
yet her own lips, which never from her infancy spoke any thing but
truth, have given me the assurance of her love. Well, we cannot change
people's nature!--and yet she was very different as a child!"
Such were the last dying words of his meditation and then, starting
up, he proceeded hastily to dress himself, addressing the servant with
as much impatience as if the man had been dreaming instead of himself.
"There, give me that coat," he exclaimed. "Set down the dressing-case
here. Put those shoes on the other side of the table; and throw the
stockings over the back of the chair. How slow you are, William! Here
now, pull off these great boots, and then go and see that old Joseph
does not poison the horses with any of his nostrums." These various
commands the man obeyed with as much promptitude as possible; and
after he was gone, De Vaux proceeded to dress himself with all the
haste of one who is afraid of being detected in loitering away his
time. He was half-way through the operation, and was just arranging
his hair, when Manners, whose rooms were on the opposite side of the
corridor, rejoined him; and they descended together, without having
made any comment on the subject which was certainly next to the heart
of Edward de Vaux. He felt that in common delicacy he could not begin
it, though he would have given worlds, by any curious process of
distillation, to have extracted Colonel Manners's first impression of
her he loved; and Manners was resolved to see more and judge more
clearly, ere he ventured even the common nothings which are usually
said upon such occasions.
In the meanwhile, the ladies in the drawing-room had not, of course,
refrained from comment on the appearance and arrival of their
visiters. As the first object of all their affections was Edward de
Vaux, his appearance and health naturally occupied several moments ere
anything else was thought of.
"How very well he looks!" said Mrs. Falkland; "his health seems
greatly improved."
"I never saw him look so handsome," said Isadore Falkland, "though he
was wrapped in that horrid great coat."
Marian de Vaux said nothing, but she repaid her cousin for her praises
of her lover's looks by a smile as bright as an angel's, which
fluttered away in a warm blush, though it had nearly been drowned in
some sparkling drops that rose into her eyes. So she turned away, and
began playing with the seals on the writing-table.
"I am delighted that Edward has prevailed on Colonel Manners to come
down with him," said Mrs. Falkland; "for I have longed to see him on
his mother's account."
"And I, because he saved Edward's life," said Marian de Vaux.
"And I am delighted too," said Isadore Falkland, "because he seems a
very agreeable gentlemanly man, though certainly a very ugly one--I
think as ugly a man as I ever saw."
"His face is certainly not handsome," replied her mother; "but his
figure seems remarkably fine. His mother was as beautiful a woman as
ever lived; and I have heard that till he was twenty he was equally
good looking."
"Poor fellow!" cried Isadore; "he has been very unfortunate, then; for
it is better to be born ugly than to become so afterward."
"I did not think him ugly at all," said Marian de Vaux.
"That was because you only saw the man that saved Edward's life,"
replied Isadore, laughing; "but he is not beautiful, I can assure you,
Marian."
"Happy are they, my dear Isadore," replied her mother, "who can 'see
Othello's visage in his mind;' and I do not think you, my dear girl,
are one either, to value any one for their personal appearance."
"No, no, no, mamma! I am not," answered Miss Falkland; "but still,
some sensible old gentleman has said that a good countenance is
the best letter of recommendation; and now, had it not been that you
had known Colonel Manners's mother, or that he had saved Edward's
life--yet, notwithstanding--" she added, breaking off her sentence
abruptly--"after all, perhaps, his face is just the one from which we
should expect a man to save people's lives, and do a great many brave
and noble things."
"I think so, certainly," answered Mrs. Falkland. "However ugly it may
be, I have seldom seen a face through which a fine mind shone out so
distinctly."
Such was the tenour of the conversation that went on in the
drawing-room till the two gentlemen returned, and by their presence
took themselves out of the range of topics. Other subjects were soon
started, and filled the hours till supper-time. Edward de Vaux
naturally took the place he loved best; and what passed between him
and his fair cousin was not always loud enough in its tone, or general
enough in its nature, to be very distinct to the rest of the party, or
very interesting to the reader. Manners, who knew as well as any one
how to effect a diversion in favour of a friend, placed himself near
the other ladies, and displayed such stores of varied information as
well occupied their attention. Those stores were somewhat desultory,
perhaps, but they were gained from every source. Man, and all the fine
and all the amusing traits of his character; countries, and all their
beauties and their disadvantages; the history of other times, the
varied events of the present; matters of taste and of science, the
light wit of a playful imagination, and the choice knowledge procured
by very extensive reading; all seemed to come within the scope of his
mind. All too, had been refined and ornamented by judgment and good
feeling, and his conversation had still the peculiar charm of
appearing far less profound than it really was. It was all light, and
playful, and gay; and yet, on rising from it, one felt improved and
instructed, without well knowing how or in what. His memory, too, was
excellent, and stored with a number of little anecdotes and beautiful
scraps of poetry; and, without ever seeming to intrude them, he knew
how to mingle them in the general current of what was passing, with
tact almost as skilful as that of the greatest writer and most amiable
man that centuries have witnessed upon earth--Sir Walter Scott.
So extensive, indeed, seemed to have been the reading of their new
acquaintance, that Mrs. Falkland wondered thereat in silence; while
Isadore, well knowing that there is scarcely any question on the face
of the earth that a young and pretty woman may not ask of a man under
forty with perfect _bienseance_ and propriety, looked up with a smile,
and said--"Pray tell me, Colonel Manners, where you have found time,
while you have been defeating the king's enemies night and day, to
read everything of every kind that is worth reading."
"Oh, madam," he replied, "I am afraid I have read but little as
compared with what I might have done. A soldier's life is the most
favourable of all others for general reading; though, perhaps, not for
pursuing steadily any particular study. He is for a few days full of
active employment, and then for many more has hardly anything to do;
and if he gives one half of his spare time to reading, he will, I
believe, read more than many a philosopher. The only difficulty is in
procuring books that are worth the trouble of poring over."
In such conversation passed the hours till supper; for those were days
of supper,--that most pleasant and sociable of all ways of acquiring
the nightmare. When the meal was announced, it of course caused some
derangement in the local position of the parties; and Edward de Vaux
being brought for a moment nearer to his aunt than his other
occupations had hitherto permitted, she took the opportunity of
saying,--"I hope, Edward, your father will not be at all offended at
your coming here first. He is sometimes a little _ombrageux_, you
know; and I would advise you to ride over tomorrow as early as
possible."
"Oh! no fear of his being offended, my dear aunt," he replied. "In the
first place, he wrote to give me that assurance. In the next place, as
we chose to ride our own two best horses down, rather than trust them
to two break-neck grooms, we could not have gone seventeen miles
farther to-night: and in the last place," he added, in a lower tone,
"you know that his lordship never likes visiters to take him by
surprise; and as the invitation to Manners was yours, not his, of
course I could not have brought him to the hall without writing, which
I had no time to do. There is nothing he hates so much as any one
taking him by surprise."
Almost as he spoke, the old servant Peter, who had retired after
announcing supper, once more threw the door open with a portentous
swing, and proclaimed, in a loud voice, "Lord Dewry!" Something like a
smile glanced upon Mrs. Falkland's lip, as the sudden and unexpected
arrival of her brother contrasted somewhat strangely with what her
nephew had just been saying. She paused in her progress to the
supper-room, however; and, in a moment after, with a slow step, which
was languid without being feeble, Lord Dewry entered the ante-room,
and came forward towards them.
While he is in the act of doing so, let us paint him to the reader--at
least, as far as the outward man is concerned. Of the inward man more
must be said hereafter. He was tall--perhaps six feet high, or very
near it--and well made, though not excessively thin. His frame was
broad, and had been very powerful; his shoulders wide, his chest
expansive, and his waist remarkably small. In feature, too, it could
be still discerned that he had once been a very handsome man; but his
face was now thin and sharp, and his complexion extremely sallow. His
eyes, however, were still fine, and his teeth of a dazzling whiteness.
He might have numbered sixty years, but he looked somewhat older,
although he had taken a good deal of pains with his dress, and lay
under considerable obligations to his valet-de-chambre. The first
impression produced on the mind of a stranger by the appearance of
Lord Dewry was imposing but not pleasing; and, unfortunately, the
unpleasant effect did not wear off. He looked very much the peer and
the man of consequence, but there was a gloomy cloud upon his brow
which was not melancholy, and a curl of the lip which was not a smile,
and both prepared the mind of all who approached him, for not the most
agreeable man in the world. His general expression, too, was cold, he
had a look like the easterly wind, at once chilling and piercing; and
though report said that he had been a very fascinating man in his
youth, and had not always made the best use of his powers of pleasing,
he did not seem at present to consider it at all necessary to use any
effort to render himself agreeable, farther than the common forms of
society and what was due to his own station required.
"Well, my lord," said Mrs. Falkland, as he came forward, "I am happy
to see you come to welcome our wanderer back again."
As she spoke, Edward advanced to his father, who grasped his hand
eagerly, while a smile of unfeigned pleasure for a single instant
spread a finer expression over the worn features of the baron.
"Welcome back, Edward!" he said; "welcome back! you look remarkably
well! I have to apologize, Maria," he added, turning to his sister
after this brief salutation bestowed upon his son, "I have to
apologize for coming thus, without notice; but I have some business
to-morrow, down at the park-house, of which I knew nothing till this
morning; and I also wished to see Edward, whose devoirs here," and he
turned towards Marian, "I knew must first be paid, according to all
the rules of gallantry. How are you, my fair niece? You look a little
pale. How are you, Isadore?" And the peer, without waiting to hear how
any one was, cast his eyes upon the ground, and fixing upon a spot in
the carpet, seemed calculating geometrically the precise measurement
of all its strange angles.
"We were just going to supper, my lord," said Mrs. Falkland; "will you
come with us? But first let me introduce you to Colonel Manners." Lord
Dewry acknowledged the introduction by a cold bow, while Manners said
some words of course; and the question of supper being renewed, the
nobleman agreed to go down with the party to the table, though he
bestowed a word or two of heavy censure on the meal they were about to
take.
"It is, nevertheless," said Colonel Manners, "from its very hour, the
most sociable one of the whole day; for by this time, in general, all
the cares, and annoyances, and labours of the busy daylight are over;
and, as is justly observed--I forget where--'nothing remains for us
but enjoyment and repose.'"
"Eating and sleep!" muttered Lord Dewry; "the delights of a hog and a
squirrel;" but as what he said did not seem intended to be heard,
Colonel Manners made no reply, though he did hear it; and the party
seated themselves round the supper-table, in walking towards which
these few sentences had passed. For some time the presence of the peer
seemed destined to cast a gloom over the society in which he had so
suddenly appeared. His manner even here, in the midst of his nearest
relations, and by the side of his newly-returned son, was cold, stern,
and gloomy, only broken by some flash of cynical scorn for things that
other people valued, or by some biting sneer at the follies and
weaknesses of his fellow-creatures.
To his niece Marian de Vaux, however, his conduct was very different.
At table he placed himself by her side; made an evident effort to
render himself agreeable to her; and whenever he spoke to her softened
his tone, and endeavoured to call up a smile. Such was his conduct on
the present evening; but it maybe necessary also to stretch our view
over the past, for his behaviour to his niece had always formed a
strange contrast to his conduct towards others. The first effect of
her presence, when he had not seen her for some time, was almost
always to throw him into a fit of deep gloom; and those who watched
him narrowly might have remarked his lip move, as if he were speaking
to himself, though no sound was heard. From this fit of abstraction he
generally roused himself soon, but it was evidently at the cost of
great efforts; and then he would speak to his niece with a degree of
tenderness which bordered on timidity, and treat her with attention
approaching to gallantry. Any one who saw him in conversation with her
might easily conceive him to have been the fascinating and courtly man
that report had represented him in his younger days; and there was a
kindness and gentleness in his whole demeanour towards her, which,
together with the family name that she bore, had often caused her to
be taken for his daughter. Nevertheless, even across the moments when
he seemed exerting himself to please her, would break occasionally the
same fits of gloom, called up by apparently the least calculated to
produce any such effect. They were then always brief, however; and a
seemed that the original exertion to conquer the dark feelings which
the first sight of his niece appeared to arouse, was sufficient to
hold all the rest in check.
It was only to her, however, that he was thus gentle. Her presence
made no difference in his conduct towards others; and the moment his
attention or his speech was called from the conversation with his
niece, he seemed to become a different being,--dark, stern, and
overbearing.
Such a demeanour, of course, was not calculated to promote any thing
like cheerful conversation; and the atmosphere of his gloom would have
affected all those by whom he was surrounded, and extinguished every
thing like pleasure for that night, had it not been for the
counteracting influence of Colonel Manners. He, without the slightest
touch of obtrusiveness or self-conceit, by a just estimation of
himself and others, was always in possession of his own powers of
mind; and never suffered the presence of any other individual--unless,
indeed, it was that of one whom he could at once admire and love--to
give a tone to his behaviour, to restrain him in what he chose to say,
or to frighten him from what he chose to do.
He took the tone of his conversation from his own heart, and from its
feelings at the time; and, guarded by fine sensibilities, good taste,
knowledge of the world, and a refined education, there was not the
slightest fear that he would ever give pain to any one whose
approbation he valued. Of all this he was himself well aware; and,
after a few moments given to something like wonder at the character of
Lord Dewry, he proceeded in the same manner as if such a person had
not been in existence.
Isadore Falkland, as soon as she found that such powerful support was
prepared for her, boldly resisted the influence of her uncle's
presence also. Mrs. Falkland, whose naturally strong mind was not
unfitted to cope with her brother, held on the even tenour of her way;
and Edward de Vaux joining in, the conversation soon became once more
general and cheerful. It had taken another turn, however; and the
subject had become the mutual adventures of Colonel Manners and Edward
de Vaux, in the war which was then raging between France and England
in North America. Many was the wild enterprise, many the curious
particular, that they had to speak of; "hair's breadth escapes and
perils imminent"--scenes and persons quite fresh and strange to
Europeans; a new world, and all that a new world contained, with a
system of warfare totally different from any thing that had ever been
seen on the older continents. At that time, neither a barbarous policy
nor a criminal negligence had produced any of those lamentable results
which are rapidly exterminating the Indian nations of America: but, at
the same time, a most barbarous policy had--instead of endeavouring to
civilize and soften the dusky natives of the woods, the real lords of
the land--had engaged them, with all their fierce and horrid modes of
warfare, in the contention between the two great bands of European
robbers, who were struggling for the country that really belonged to
the savage. Of these Indian nations, and of their wild habits, both
Manners and De Vaux spoke at large; and many a strange scene had they
witnessed together among the uncultivated woods and untamed people of
the transatlantic world.
Often, too, Manners, with kind and friendly zeal, would make Edward de
Vaux the hero of his tale; and while he related, as if he were
speaking of ordinary events, some gallant exploit or some noble
action, would suffer his eye to glance for a single instant,
unperceived, to the countenance of Marian de Vaux; it was generally
calm and tranquil--beautiful, but still; yet occasionally, when the
moment of danger or of interest came, and when Edward extricated
himself gallantly from some difficult or dangerous situation, there
was a bright light beamed up in her eyes, a long-drawn breath, and a
flickering colour, which satisfied Manners that all was well.
Nevertheless, Manners could not, of course, speak of his friend's
adventures without a little delicate man[oe]uvring, in order to make
the tale appear more a general than a personal one; nor could he
continue the subject long. Often, therefore, he returned to the
Indians, and often to the state of America in general, while Mrs.
Falkland and her daughter gave him, by manifold questions and
observations, full opportunity of varying the subject _ad libitum_.
They sought to know, among other facts, what link of connection could
possibly have sprung up between the Indians and the Europeans so
strong as to make the savage nations have any feeling of regard or
interest towards either of the countries which only struggled to
monopolize the means of plundering and destroying them.
"Oh, you must not think, my dear madam," answered Colonel Manners,
"that all persons who visit America are actuated by one selfish
motive, or pursue one system of fraud and oppression towards the
Indians. On the contrary, there are many who go over there with the
philanthropic motive of civilizing and benefiting the savage tribes
themselves; and who, in the endeavour to effect this object, display a
degree of wisdom, perseverance, judgment, and courage, that is quite
astonishing. Nor are these qualities without the most immense effect
upon the wild aborigines of the land, who look up to such men almost
as they would to a god. De Vaux and I know a very remarkable instance
of the kind, in one of the most noble-spirited and excellent of human
beings, to whom we are both under no small obligations. He nursed me
through a long and severe fever, when my senses were quite gone; and
afterward enabled me, by his influence with the Indians, to render
your nephew some small service--which, however, was entirely
attributable to his exertions."
"Nay, nay, Manners," replied De Vaux; "to yours as much as his, and
more; for had you not ventured, at the head of a party of Indians, two
hundred miles into a hostile country, not a step of which you knew--"
"Well, well, De Vaux," answered his friend, "you must own that he went
with me, though he did not know you, and I did. You must not take away
from the merit of my hero, for such I intend to make him in these
ladies' eyes. I know not, however, how you will like a hero of sixty,
Miss Falkland; but such, I must confess, he is at least. He has now
lived for many years, upon the very borders of civilization, or rather
beyond it, for his house is surrounded by forests and Indian wigwams.
He has never taken any part in the contentions of the tribes, and
seems equally venerated by all, showering good and blessings upon the
heads of every one who approaches him. He is deeply versed in the laws
and the manners of the natives, too; and, though a finished and
elegant scholar and gentleman, conforms when necessary, to their
usages, in a manner that is at once amusing and admirable. He is, at
the same time, the most skilful and indefatigable hunter that the
world, perhaps, ever produced,--an accomplishment which renders him
still more venerable in the eyes of the Indians, who, on account of
all these qualities, have named him 'The White Father.'"[2]
---------------------
[Footnote 2: We need hardly point out to the reader, that though the
name Has been changed, the character of a well-known individual is not
here overdrawn.]
---------------------
"Delightful creature!" exclaimed Miss Falkland, with her beautiful
eyes sparkling like diamonds; "but tell me, Colonel Manners, tell me,
what is he like? Mamma, if you have no objection, I will go out and
marry him."
"None in the world, my love!" answered Mrs. Falkland; "but, perhaps,
it may be better, first, to send over and ask whether he will marry
you."
"That he will of course," answered she: "but, Colonel Manners, you
have not told me what he is like--in person I mean."
"Oh, he is fresh and hale as a life of exercise and a heart at rest
can make him," replied Manners. "Indeed, he is as handsome a man as
ever I saw."
"Oh, that will do exactly!" cried Miss Falkland, laughing. Colonel
Manners smiled too; but there was a tinge of melancholy in his smile;
for, however much he might have made up his mind to the fact, that
personal beauty is an indispensable requisite to obtain woman's love,
yet every little trait which served to confirm that opinion touched a
gloomy chord in his bosom, which again called forth the tone of many a
harmonizing feeling, and made somewhat sad music within.
"And pray, Colonel Manners," said Lord Dewry, with the cold, if not
supercilious tone which he generally employed, "what may be the name
of the wonderful person who does all these wonderful things?"
"The name, my lord," replied Colonel Manners coolly, "the name of the
gentleman who went two hundred miles into the Indian country to save
your son, Captain de Vaux from the tomahawk, without ever having seen
him, is one known throughout the greater part of America,--Sir William
Ryder."
Lord Dewry turned suddenly still paler than he was before; and then as
red as fire. Whether it was that some feelings had been excited by
that name with which he did not choose to trust his lips, or whether
his emotion proceeded from temporary illness, did not appear; but he
replied nothing; and Colonel Manners, by whom the peer's agitation had
not been totally unmarked, went on. "If I remember right," he said, "I
heard Sir William Ryder ask after your lordship's health from De Vaux,
and say that he had known you many years ago in England."
"I once knew, sir," replied Lord Dewry, drawing himself up, "I once
knew an unworthy blackguard of that name, who is now I believe, in
America; but he has no right to claim acquaintance with me."
De Vaux looked at his father with astonishment, and then turned his
eyes towards Manners, as if to pray him patience; but his friend was
perfectly calm, and replied:--"Your lordship must allude to some
different person, as the description does not at all correspond with
him of whom I speak."
"No, no, sir," answered the baron, reddening, "I speak of the same
person,--there can be no doubt of it,--a gambling beggar!"
"If you do speak of the same person, Lord Dewry," replied Colonel
Manners, quite calmly, "I must beg of you to remember, that you speak
of my friend; and in the presence of one who does not like to hear his
friend's character assailed."
"Indeed, sir, indeed!" exclaimed Lord Dewry, rising; "do you kindly
wish to dictate to me, in my sister's house, what I am to say of a
person, who it seems, has formed an unfortunate intimacy with my own
son; and is, as I said, a gambling beggar?"
Manners paused a moment. He and De Vaux were alike under deep
obligations to the man of whom Lord Dewry spoke; and he felt that the
language used by the peer was not only a gross personal insult to both
of them, but especially to himself, who had been the means of
introducing him to his companion, and who had the moment before
bestowed such high and unqualified praise on the very person whom he
now heard reviled. He remembered Lord Dewry's age and situation,
however, and his own particular position, and endeavoured to moderate
his reply as much as possible; though to pass the matter over in
silence, or to leave the charges of the peer without direct
contradiction, he felt to be impossible, as an officer, a man of
honour, or the friend of Sir William Ryder.
"Your personal opinion, my lord," he answered, "you may, of course,
express to your own son, or your own family whenever you like,
provided it be not injurious to any friend of mine. In which last case
I shall, as before, beg your lordship to refrain in my presence, for I
am not a man to hear a friend calumniated in silence."
"Calumniated, sir! calumniated!" exclaimed Lord Dewry.
"Yes, sir, such was the word I made use of," replied Colonel Manners,
"because the expressions you applied to Sir William Ryder were
calumnious, if applied to my friend, whom a long life of noble actions
raises above suspicion; but I trust and believe we are speaking of
different persons."
"'Tis well, sir; 'tis very well!" replied Lord Dewry, appearing to
grow somewhat cooler; "'tis extremely well!--I trust it is as you say.
Give me a glass of soda-water. Maria, I shall now retire to rest;
I am somewhat fatigued: my apartments are, I think, opposite the
drawing-room. Good-night!--Colonel Manners, I wish you good-night!"
And, bowing with low and bitter courtesy, he left the room.
Colonel Manners, whatever might be his feelings, and whatever might be
his intentions, took no notice of what had passed after Lord Dewry
left the room, although he could not but feel that he had been
insulted by a man whose age protected him; but both Mrs. Falkland and
De Vaux spoke upon the subject, after a moment's painful pause. The
first apologized with dignified mildness for the occurrence, and
assuring her visiter that something strange and extraordinary must
have irritated her brother during the course of the day, or that he
would not so far have forgot his usual _bienseance_; and the latter
pressed his friend with kindly earnestness to forget what had
occurred, and not to suffer it to affect his conduct, or abridge his
stay.
Colonel Manners smiled, and suffered himself to be overcome: "You
know, De Vaux, that I am not one to be driven from my position by the
first fire," he said; "and as I suppose that Lord Dewry and myself
will not meet very frequently after the present time, we shall have
but few opportunities of being as agreeable to each other as we have
been to-night."
Thus ended the conversation, and soon after the party separated, each
grieving not a little that the harmony of the evening had been so
unfortunately interrupted, when there was no reason to expect such an
event.
CHAPTER IV.
The mind of man is a curious thing, in some respects not at all unlike
an old Gothic castle, full of turnings and windings, long dark
passages, spiral staircases, and secret corners. Among all these
architectural involutions, too, the ideas go wandering about,
generally very much at random, often get astray, often go into a wrong
room and fancy it their own; and often, too, it happens that, when one
of them is tripping along quite quietly, thinking that all is right,
open flies a door; out comes another, and turns the first back
again--sometimes rudely, blowing her candle out, and leaving her in
the dark,--and sometimes taking her delicately by the tips of the
fingers, and leading her to the very spot whence she set out at first.
Colonel Manners, retiring to his bedchamber, though he seldom, if
ever, indulged in reveries of happiness which were never to be
realized, could not help sitting down to think over the events
of the evening, and the circle to which he had been introduced.
In the first place, he took great care to turn the idea of Lord Dewry
and his rudeness out of the castle, being a great economizer of
pleasant thoughts; and then, with somewhat of a sigh (the sort of
semi-singultus which people give to something irremediable in their
own fate, while contemplating the state of another), he thought, "De
Vaux is a very happy man! and yet," he continued, "though she is very
beautiful, too, and evidently has deeper feelings beneath that calm
exterior, yet, had I had to choose between the two cousins, I would
have fixed upon the other." As he thus went on thinking, Colonel
Manners began to remember that his thoughts might be treading upon
dangerous ground: he did not know even that they might not be drawn
into an ambuscade of dreams and wishes which he had long, as he
fancied, defeated for ever; and, therefore, he hastily beat the
general, and marched the whole detachment off to join his own
regiment. What we mean is, that he turned his mind to military
affairs, and would very fain have thought no more either of Mrs.
Falkland's domestic circle, or of the future happiness of his friend;
or, at least, he would have schooled himself, if he did think of such
things at all, not to extract any personal feelings therefrom, but to
let them be to him as matters in which he had no further share than as
in a passing pageant of a pretty device, through which he was to move
as he would have done through a minuet, forgetting it all as soon as
the music ceased. Still, however, as he went on thinking, open flew
some of the doors of association, and ever and anon out started some
fresh idea, which brought him back to the happiness of his friend, and
the delight of seeing a family circle of one's own, and looks of
affection, and a joyful welcome after toil, and exertion, and danger
were over.
As sleep, however, is a strong fortress against the attack of
dangerous thoughts, he resolved to take refuge there from a force that
was too powerful for him; and, going to bed, he was soon within the
gates of slumber. But fancy turned traitor within his fortress, and,
ere long, whole troops of dreams poured in, laying his heart prostrate
before imaginations which he had repelled with veteran courage for
more than fourteen years. There was, of course, no resisting under
such circumstances: the garrison threw down their arms, and he went on
dreaming of love and domestic happiness all night. It did him no harm,
however, for one of the most curious phenomena which take place in
regard to those wild visitants, dreams, occurred in this case. The
visions that had come to him had all been as vivid as reality: he had
felt more and more acutely than he had, perhaps, ever felt in life;
there had been pleasures and pains, intense and varying; events and
feelings which, had they occurred in waking existence, he would have
remembered till the last hour of his life; and yet, when he awoke, he
had forgotten the whole. It was as if some after-sleep, with a sponge
dipped in Lethe, had passed by, and wiped out from the tablet of
memory all but a few rough scratches, sufficient to show the dreams
had been there.
The day was yet young when he awoke; but Manners was habitually an
early riser--a habit that generally springs from two causes--vigorous
health, a frame without languor, and easily refreshed; or from a
refined heart, at ease within itself. When he had prayed--for all
noble-minded beings pray; and the only truly great pride is the pride
with which one owns one's self the servant of God: it is the soldier
pointing to the colours under which he serves--when he had prayed, he
dressed himself, somewhat slowly, gazing from time to time out of the
window over the rich landscape sparkling with dew and morning; and
then, opening his door, went out with the purpose of breathing the
fresh air of the early day. The windows at either end of the corridor
were still closed, for it had scarcely struck six, but the skylight
over the staircase gave light enough; and Colonel Manners, descending,
found a housemaid, with unbought roses on her cheeks, and blue arms,
busily washing the marble hall and the steps that went out into the
garden, which, stretching away to the south-west, was separated from
the park in which the house stood, by a haw-haw and a light fence.
Give me a flower-garden, in the early morning, with its dry
gravel-walks shining in the fresh sunbeams, and all the thousands of
flowers which man's care and God's bounty have raised to beautify our
dwellings, expanding their refreshed petals to the young light. The
garden into which Colonel Manners now went forth was an old-fashioned
one, with manifold beds, arranged in as many mathematical figures.
Each bed, fringed with its close-cut green border of box, was full of
as many flowers as it would hold, and as the season afforded; and
though of late many a foreign land has been ransacked to procure new
exotics for our grounds, yet even then the garden was not without its
rich assortment of flowering shrubs; some still bearing the blossom,
some fallen into the fruit. Between the beds--and, as the gardens were
of very great extent, the beds were not very close together--were
spaces of soft green turf, sometimes flanked with holly, or hedged
with yew, so as to make a sort of little bowling-green; sometimes wide
open to the gay sunshine, and full of innumerable thrushes and
blackbirds, hopping along, with their fine shanks sunk amid the blades
of grass. Here and there, too, was an arbour covered with clematis;
and hothouses and green-houses now and then peeped out from behind the
shrubberies, on the sunny side of the garden.
Colonel Manners took his way along a walk that flanked the enclosure
to the east, and which, running by the side of the haw-haw, a little
elevated above the park and surrounding country, gave, on the one
side, an extensive prospect over a rich and smiling landscape, with
the deer bounding over the grass, and the cattle lowing along the
distant upland; and, on the other, showed the garden--somewhat formal,
perhaps, but neat, and beautiful, and sparkling. He was a soldier, and
a man of the world, and he loved books, and he did not dislike
society; but, perhaps, there never was a man upon earth who more
thoroughly enjoyed a solitary morning walk amid flowers and beautiful
scenery--scenery in which one can pause and fill one's eye with fair
sights, while the ideas springing from each particular blossom, or
from the whole general view, can ramble out into a world of indistinct
loveliness, wherein one can scarcely be said to think, but rather to
live in a sensation of happiness which approaches near to heaven.
Although, as we have observed, one can scarcely be said to think, yet
there is no situation on the earth--or very few--in which a man so
little likes to have his thoughts interrupted, and his fine
imaginations forcibly called back to the dull ground. Colonel Manners,
therefore, was not very well pleased, when, after following the walk
which he had chosen to the end, he heard footsteps beyond the bushes,
round which the path now swept.
Had these footsteps, indeed, possessed that light peculiar sound which
is produced by a small and pretty foot, Colonel Manners, who never
objected to see the beautiful things of nature enhanced by the
presence of the most beautiful, might not have thought his reveries
unworthily disturbed. In the present instance, however, the sound was
very different: it was the dull, heavy, determined step of a foot that
takes a firm hold of the ground; and, as he went on, he was not
surprised to meet with Lord Dewry at the turning of the walk.
Colonel Manners, if he had not forgot all about their discussion of
the preceding evening, had remembered it as little as possible; and,
being one of those happy men who never suffer any annoyance of such a
nature to rankle at the heart, he had settled the matter in his own
mind by thinking that the old gentleman had the toothache, or
some of those corporal pangs and infirmities which cause and excuse
ill-temper, and sometimes even rudeness, at that period of life when
the passing away of those mighty blessings, vigour and health, is in
itself matter enough for irritation. As, however, he never liked to
subject himself to occasions for commanding his temper, he proposed,
in the present instance, merely to give the peer "Good-morning," and
pass on upon his walk.
This purpose he was not permitted to execute; as no sooner did Lord
Dewry come opposite to him, than he stopped abruptly, and answered
Colonel Manners's salutation by a cold and haughty bow. "Colonel
Manners," he said, "I saw you come into the garden from the windows of
my room, and I have done myself the honour of seeking you."
The peer spoke slowly and calmly; but Manners, who doubted not that
his intention was to apologize, was both somewhat surprised that so
proud a man should do so at all, and likewise somewhat puzzled by a
sneering curl of the nostril and a slight twinkling of the eyelid,
which seemed to betray a spirit not quite so tranquil as his tone
would have indicated. "Your lordship does me honour," he replied;
"what are your commands?"
"Simply as follows, Colonel Manners," replied Lord Dewry: "I think you
last night made use of the term _calumny_, as applied to part of my
discourse; and as I am not in the habit of being insulted without
taking measures to redress myself, I have followed you hither for the
purpose of arranging the necessary result."
Colonel Manners felt inclined to smile, but he refrained, and replied,
seriously, "My lord, I wish to heaven you would forget this business.
You thought fit to apply the strongest terms of injury to a gentleman
for whom I had expressed my friendship and gratitude; and I pronounced
such terms to be calumnious in regard to my friend, but expressed, at
the same time, my belief that we were speaking of different persons.
For Heaven's sake, let the matter rest where it does: I meant no
personal insult to you; I trust you meant none to me. I came down here
the friend of your son, on a joyful occasion, and it would pain me not
a little to go away the enemy of his father."
The lip of Lord Dewry curled with a bitter and galling sneer. "Colonel
Manners," he said, "I believe that you wear a sword."
"I do, sir," replied Manners, reddening; "but I should be unworthy to
wear one, did I draw it against a man old enough to be my father."
Lord Dewry, too, reddened. "If, as I perceive, sir," he said, "you
intend to make my age your protection, I trust you have calculated the
consequences to your reputation, and will understand the light in
which I view you. When I am willing, sir, to waive all respect of age,
I do not see what you have to do with it."
"Much, my lord," answered Colonel Manners; "much have my own
conscience and my own honour to do with it."
"Do not let an officer who is refusing to fight talk of honour, sir,"
replied Lord Dewry.
"You cannot provoke me to forget myself, Lord Dewry," answered the
other; "I hold all duelling in abhorrence, and as any thing but a
proof of courage but when the encounter is to be between a young and
active man, and one of your lordship's age and probable habits, it is
murder outright. Your lordship will excuse me for saying that I think
the business a very foolish one, and that I must insist upon its being
dropped."
"I shall drop it as far as regards the endeavour to make a man fight
who is not disposed to do so," replied Lord Dewry, with an angry and
disappointed, rather than a contemptuous, smile, for which he intended
it to be; "but, as a matter of course, I shall make generally known
the fact that you have refused to draw your sword when called upon."
Colonel Manners laughed. "My lord," he answered, "I have drawn it in
eleven different battles in his majesty's service; I have been wounded
nine times, and I am quite satisfied with a certain degree of
reputation obtained in these affairs, without seeking to increase it
by the encounter to which your lordship would provoke me."
Lord Dewry stood and gazed at him for a moment or two with a heavy
lowering brow, as if contemplating how he might lash his adversary to
the course he sought to bring him to pursue; but the calm and
confident courage and cool determination of Colonel Manners foiled him
even in his own thoughts; and, after glaring at him thus while one
might count twenty, he exclaimed, "You shall repent it, sir! you shall
repent it!"
"I do not think it, my lord," replied Manners: "I wish you
good-morning;" and he turned calmly on his heel, retreading, with slow
steps, the path he had followed from the house.
In the mean time, the pace of Lord Dewry was much more rapid; but for
a moment we must pause ourselves, and seize this opportunity of
looking into his bosom, and seeing some of the motives which, like
Cyclops in the cave of Vulcan, were busy forging all those hot
thunderbolts that he was dealing about so liberally--_some_, we only
say some; for were we to look at all, we should have a catalogue too
long for recapitulation here. The fact, then, was, that Lord Dewry had
been greatly irritated on the previous day, by a conversation of not
the most pleasant kind, concerning the very Sir William Ryder of whom
he was destined to hear such high praises the moment he set his foot
within his sister's doors. Now, for various reasons, unto himself best
known, the noble lord hated this Sir William Ryder with a most
reverent and solicitous hatred, and would willingly have given a
thousand pounds to any one who would have brought him proof positive
that he was dead and safely deposited in that earthy chancery, the
archives of which, though they contain many a treasured secret, can
never meet the searching eye of this inquisitive world. What, then,
were his feelings, when he heard that this very man, in regard to whom
his darkest passions had been stirred up that very day, and towards
whom he had nourished an evergreen animosity for many years--when he
heard that, through the instrumentality of Colonel Manners, this man
had been made intimate with his only son!
This, then, was Manners's offence; but had it been likely to end
there, Lord Dewry might even have forgiven it. Such, however, was not
the case: Lord Dewry had some reason to believe that the object of his
hatred might visit England; and imagination instantly set up before
him the picture of his son, Colonel Manners, and Sir William Ryder
meeting, and discussing many things that would be better let alone.
Now he trusted and believed that, as far as his ancient enemy was
concerned, he could manage his son, and cause him to break off a
connection which had not been of long duration; but at the same time
he judged it necessary to place a barrier between him and Colonel
Manners himself, so as to cut off every link of communication between
Edward de Vaux and Sir William Ryder; and for this purpose he at once
determined to quarrel with his son's friend; which, in his own
irritable and irritated state of mind, he found it not at all
difficult to accomplish. On the preceding night he had begun,
therefore, with real good-will; and as he was a man totally devoid of
any thing like personal fear, and remembered that he had once been a
remarkably good swordsman, while he forgot that he was sixty, he was
really pleased when Manners made use of a term which promised to give
him an opportunity of bringing their dispute to such an issue as must
absolutely put an end to the intimacy between his son and Colonel
Manners forever. "Even should I receive a wound," he thought, "so much
the better;" and, strange as it is to say, had Lord Dewry even
contemplated being killed in the encounter he sought, he would have
looked upon it with less apprehension than might be supposed, when
thereunto was attached the certainty of his son being separated for
ever from Charles Manners and from Sir William Ryder; so much less
terrible does it often appear to our contradictory nature to meet the
eye of God than to encounter the scrutiny of beings like ourselves.
Frustrated by the coolness and firmness of his opponent in the grand
object of his morning's walk, he now turned towards the house,
animated with a strong desire of accomplishing his purpose by other
means. The peer now determined, as it was impossible to make Colonel
Manners the aggressor, to induce his own family to take the
initiative, and break with the object of his dislike or of his
apprehension--for perhaps there might be a little of both at the
bottom of his heart; and, with a resolution which was the more
imperious and domineering from having seldom suffered contradiction,
he sought the apartment of his son.
Edward de Vaux was just up, and was in the act of putting on, one
after another, the different parts of his apparel. As this act of
clothing one's person, however much pleasure people may take in it
habitually, is in itself a laborious and troublesome operation, De
Vaux's servant was helping him therein; but the appearance of Lord
Dewry, and a hint not to be mistaken, sent the man out of the room,
while the noble lord betook him to a chair; and his son, seeing that
there was not a little thunder in the dark cloud upon his father's
brow, sat, expectant and half-dressed, wondering what was to come
next.
"Edward," said his father, in a tone which was intended at once to
express parental affection, some slight touch of sadness, and firm
relying confidence upon his son's good feelings, but which, in truth,
did not succeed in expressing much except a great deal of irritation
and heat--"Edward, I have come to speak with you upon last night's
unfortunate business, and to give you, in a few words, my opinion upon
the subject, in order that you may choose your part at once."
Edward de Vaux, who knew his father well--though he knew not all his
motives in the present instance--prepared himself to resist; for he
divined, almost immediately from the beginning of Lord Dewry's
discourse, what would be the end; being well aware, though he did not
choose to put it exactly in such terms to his own heart, that a
certain combination of vanity, pride, selfishness, and remorselessness
in the bosom of his worthy parent, made him the exact person to resent
highly even a slight offence, and to treasure long hatred for a casual
word. But Edward de Vaux knew also that he himself stood in a position
towards his father different from that in which any other person
stood: he knew that the ties of nature, long habit, and irreproachable
conduct rendered him the only real object of Lord Dewry's love--the
only being who possessed any influence over a mind which never through
life, in any other case than his own, had yielded to either persuasion
or opposition. He himself, however, had found from experience, that he
could resist with success when the ground of resistance was such as
satisfied his own heart; and he now, therefore, prepared to practise,
upon an occasion of more importance, a behaviour he had sometimes
displayed in regard to trifles. He was aware, at the same time, from
his soldierly habits, that it was advantageous sometimes to be the
attacking party; and when his father paused, a little out of breath
with climbing the stairs faster than necessary, and with speaking more
vehemently than was becoming, he instantly replied, "Oh, my lord, if
you mean the business with Manners, do not think of it any more!
Manners is extremely good-humoured, and will forget it at once, I am
sure. No further apology is necessary."
"Apology, sir!" exclaimed Lord Dewry; "what do you mean? I have made
no apology!"
"No, my lord," replied De Vaux; "but, considering that Manners was my
friend, that he saved my life at the risk of his own, that he came
down here at my invitation, and that he was a guest in my aunt's
house, I thought it necessary to apologize for the manner in which my
father had treated him, saying that I was sure you were irritated by
some other cause;" and adding--"I felt sure you would--that you would
be sorry for having expressed yourself so bitterly, when you reflected
upon the circumstances."
"You did, sir!" said Lord Dewry, "you did!--then I have only to tell
you that you said what was not the case;" De Vaux reddened; "that you
took a great and unwarrantable liberty with my name," continued Lord
Dewry, whose passion had quite overcome every restraint; "and that,
had you considered your father as much as this new friend, you would
have seen that _I_ was the insulted person--that _I_ had a right to
demand apology, and you would have broken off all connection with a
person who would show so little respect to your parent; and this,
sir,--this is what I command you now to do, or to take the
consequences of your disobedience."
"My lord," answered De Vaux, cooling himself down as far as
possible,--"my lord, as you must already have seen, we view the matter
in a very different light. It grieves me bitterly that we should
disagree so severely on the very day after my return; but if you wish
me to break off my acquaintance with Colonel Manners, because you have
thought fit to treat him with some rudeness, I must tell you, at once,
such an idea could never be entertained by me for a moment. As to the
consequences which your lordship speaks of, I am at a loss to conceive
what you mean. A disagreement with your lordship is--"
"The consequences, Captain De Vaux," interrupted his father, with a
small red spot glowing in the middle of his sallow cheek--"the
consequences may be more bitter than you think. You believe that the
estates of the barony, being entailed, must descend to you; but let me
tell you, young man--let me tell you," he repeated, approaching nearer
to his son, and lowering his voice in tone, but not in emphasis,--"let
me tell you, you could be deprived of them by a word. But no more of
that," he added, raising his head, and resuming his usual air of
dignity, which had been a good deal lost during that morning, "no more
of that; the consequences to which I alluded, and to which I now
allude, are the displeasure of your father, and the knowledge that you
remain the friend of a man who has insulted him."
"Could I see, my dear sir," replied De Vaux, "that Manners had insulted
you--"
"It is sufficient, sir, that I see it," interrupted his father,
hastily, "it is sufficient that I see it; and I hold myself aggrieved
that my son should see it otherwise. But do as you will, Edward de
Vaux--do as you will. If you are lost to a sense of filial duty, and
refuse to obey my positive injunction to break with this man, you may
act as you think fit."
"I shall never, my lord, even dream of breaking with him," replied De
Vaux; "as it appears to me, that to do so would render me an
accomplice in an act of notable injustice."
"You are dutiful, sir--you are respectful," said Lord Dewry, setting
his teeth hard; "but do as you please--do as you please: I wish you
good-morning;" and, turning on his heel, he quitted the apartment.
"This is mighty disagreeable," thought De Vaux, as he rang the bell to
bring back his servant; "this is mighty disagreeable and mighty
absurd, it seems to me; but the worst part of all will be the meeting
at breakfast. However, all these things must be encountered as they
come, in this good pleasant world of ours;" and he returned to his
toilet.
In the mean time the noble lord, his father, proceeded to his own
apartments, laid his hand upon the bell, and rang in such a manner as
to show that he was in a passion, not only to his own servant, but to
the whole house. His own servant, however, a thin, dark, saturnine
person, well calculated by constitutional frigidity to cope with an
irritable master, was not in the least alarmed by any sign of his
lord's angry mood, to which he was wont to oppose, on all occasions, a
dull, obtuse silence, that left him without any remedy but patience.
He accordingly proceeded slowly to Lord Dewry's apartment; received
the objurgation for his tardiness with profound and unmoved
taciturnity; listened to his lordship's orders to pack up all his
dressing things, and order the horses to the carriage directly, in the
same automatonical manner, and then went to take his breakfast, not at
all approving of his master's purpose of setting out without
refreshment. Lord Dewry, fondly fancying that he had gone to order the
horses to be put to, waited in his bedroom very patiently for five
minutes, then began to get angry during five minutes more, and then
rang the bell for at least the same space of time. At the end of that
period the man again made his appearance, and, with a face of dull
unconsciousness, asked if his lordship had rung, although he had heard
every succeeding stroke of the bell.
Lord Dewry stamped with rage; but, finding that it had no effect, he
left the man alone to arrange his dressing things, while, for the
purpose of waiting till the carriage was ready, he went down to the
library, calculating, of course, upon its being, as usual, the most
solitary room in the whole house. If he expected to find it empty,
however, he was mistaken: for Mrs. Falkland was seated at the table,
writing a note; and, as there was no person, in or out of his own
family, for whom his lordship entertained so great a respect--which
would have been a little, perhaps, approaching to fear, if he could
have feared any thing--there was no one consequently whom he less
wished to meet, at a moment when he was acting in a manner which
needed the full excitement of passion and pride to appear, even in his
own opinion, either dignified or gentlemanly. He was drawing back, but
Mrs. Falkland raised her eyes; and his lordship, conscious that he had
been wishing to retreat, advanced, of course, with a greater degree of
boldness, and asked whether he interrupted her by his presence.
"Not in the least--not in the least," replied Mrs. Falkland; "but you
seem prepared for travelling, my lord. You are not thinking of setting
out before breakfast?"
"Most assuredly I shall, Maria," replied the peer. "You do not suppose
that I am going to subject myself to the pain of meeting again, in
your house, a person by whom I have been so grossly insulted as this
Colonel Manners?"
"Whom you have so grossly insulted, I suppose, your lordship means,"
replied Mrs. Falkland. "My lord, I am your sister, and consequently am
not disposed to see faults; but I tell you sincerely, that you equally
owe an apology to me and to Colonel Manners for your behaviour last
night. The one to myself I will, of course, dispense with; but, if you
do right, you will go to Colonel Manners, and tell him that something
had occurred in the course of yesterday to irritate and vex you, and
that you are extremely sorry that your irritation vented itself upon
him." Mrs. Falkland spoke with infinite calmness; and, when she had
done, wrote another sentence of her note, leaving her brother the
while to pause on the somewhat bitter matter of her discourse.
His lordship employed the time in remembering that it was a lady and
his sister to whom he was opposed, and in subduing the wrath of his
heart into the quieter form of sneer; although he still continued to
gaze on her, while she wrote, with eyes in which his anger still
maintained its ground, like a solitary post left behind a retreating
army.
"Do you know, Mrs. Falkland," he replied, with a curling lip, "in such
pleasant little discussions as these, we gentlemen have hardly fair
play when opposed to female antagonists; for, under shelter of your
sex, you women dare say things to us that it would be ungentlemanly to
retort, and which are very difficult to bear."
"Truth, my lord, I am afraid, is often difficult to bear," replied
Mrs. Falkland; "and perhaps, on such occasions, you may hear it in a
more unqualified manner from a woman than from one of your own sex."
"As the matter is a difference of opinion, Maria, between you and me,"
said Lord Dewry, "it is rather like begging the question to assume
that it is truth that gives me offence. You have forgot your logic, my
good sister."
"If I ever possessed any, my lord," rejoined Mrs. Falkland, "I
certainly should not be disposed to try it upon you, in order to
induce you either to make an apology, which is alike due to yourself
and to Colonel Manners, or to stay here without making it."
"I understand you, my dear sister, I understand you!" exclaimed Lord
Dewry; "but do not be in a hurry. My carriage is ordered, and cannot
be many minutes ere it delivers you from my presence. In the mean
time, I will not interrupt you further.--Good-morning, Mrs. Falkland!"
"Good-morning," she replied; and her brother walked towards the door.
As he laid his hand upon the lock, he turned for a single glance at
his sister; but Mrs. Falkland was writing on, with a rapid and easy
pen, in the clear and running movements of which there was evidently
not the slightest impediment from one extraneous thought in reference
to the conversation which had just passed between them. Anger, hatred,
malice, even active scorn itself, man can bear or retort; but utter
indifference is more galling still. So Lord Dewry found it; and
throwing open the door with a degree of force that made sundry of
the smaller articles of furniture dance about the room, he issued
forth in search of his carriage, with wounded pride and diminished
self-importance.
Gliding gracefully down the corridor towards the breakfast-room was,
at that very moment, Marian de Vaux, his niece; and the sight of her
beautiful face and form, with its calm and easy movements, was well
calculated to tranquillize and sooth. But Lord Dewry had never been
famous for being easily soothed. Dr. Johnson is said to have liked a
"good hater;" and had he carried the predilection a little further,
the peer was just the man to merit that sort of approbation. He was
not only a good hater, but he was, and always had been, the man of all
others to nourish his anger, and render it both stout and permanent.
Now, during the early part of the preceding evening, before he found
"mettle more attractive" in his quarrel with Colonel Manners, the
noble lord had, as he always did, paid very great attention to Marian
de Vaux. He had sat by her, he had talked to her, he had exerted
himself to be agreeable to her, when it was very evident that he was
not much disposed to be agreeable to any one. But now, as Marian
approached, gave her hand, and wished him good-morning, he let her
hand drop as soon as he had taken it, and answered her salutation by
telling her he was in haste.
Somewhat surprised at the cloud upon her uncle's brow, his flashing
eye, and abrupt manner, Marian drew back, in order to let him pass,
and Lord Dewry took two steps more along the passage. Then
recollecting himself, however, and remembering how strange his conduct
might appear, he turned, and made the whole seem stranger than ever,
as all people do when, with a heart very full of feelings which they
are afraid or ashamed to picture in their nakedness, they attempt to
explain the strange behaviour to which those feelings have prompted
them.
"I am obliged to quit the house, Marian," he said, in a quick and
agitated manner; "disagreeable occurrences have taken place, which
compel me, in justice to myself, to withdraw: the whole business is an
unfortunate one, and I am afraid it may be some time before we meet
again; but I will write--I will write, and explain myself fully.
Good-by! I hear the carriage!" And with a rapid step he walked on,
leaving Marian de Vaux not a little confounded by all that had passed,
and entirely misconstruing the few abrupt and unsatisfactory sentences
which her uncle had pronounced.
She heard his step sound along the passage, down the stairs, and
through the hall; listened to his voice giving some directions to his
servant, and then to the closing of the carriage-door, and the grating
roll of the wheels over the gravel before the house. Then mentally
exclaiming, "This is all very strange, and very unfortunate!" she went
on towards the breakfast-room, into which a servant had just carried
the urn, without closing the door behind him. The sound of her cousin
Isadore's voice, speaking gayly with Colonel Manners, issued forth as
she approached; but Marian de Vaux was agitated and alarmed; and
feeling that she must have time to think over her uncle's words, and
to compose her mind, ere she mingled with any society, she turned to
the music-room, and had entered it before she was aware that any one
was there.
CHAPTER V.
It was a beautiful idea of Plato, and not at all an unchristian idea,
that the sins which people have committed during life, and which in
this case were termed _manes_, had an existence after death, and were
the instruments for punishing those who had committed them--the worm
that dieth not, and the fire that cannot be quenched. But had Plato
seen into the bosom of Lord Dewry, he would have perceived that his
theory might be carried a little further; and that the sins and
passions do not wait till we are dead in order to torment their
authors, but punish them even in this world, not alone in their
consequences, but by their very existence. After having laboured
_manibus pedibusque_ to render every member of his sister's household
as uncomfortable as possible, the noble lord sunk back in his
carriage, with his frame exhausted and his whole heart on fire
with that flaming up of painful memories and violent passions
which the occurrences we have related had excited. Unfortunately,
however, it happens in the wonderful arrangement of this our earthly
dwelling-place, that here our evil qualities not only torment
ourselves, but others also; and the noble lord might have consoled
himself with the certainty that he had, for the time at least,
destroyed much tranquillity, and turned joy into bitterness.
Of all who suffered on the occasion, Marian de Vaux perhaps suffered
most. Mrs. Falkland, for her part, had been very much offended, but
she respected her brother too little to permit his ill temper or
rudeness to produce any lasting effect upon her. Edward de Vaux
believed that his father's present mood would not be long ere it
yielded to circumstances; and Colonel Manners, though of course
considerably annoyed by what had taken place between Lord Dewry and
himself, was not aware of what had passed afterward; and consequently
did not enter, as he would otherwise have done most feelingly, into
the uncomforts of Mrs. Falkland and his friend De Vaux. But with
Marian the matter was different. She knew nothing of all the
occurrences of the morning: she had seen her uncle retire on the
preceding night, apparently dropping his dispute with Colonel Manners;
and she never, for a moment, connected his extraordinary conduct of
that day with the disagreement of the preceding evening.
In almost all cases of apprehension and uncertainty, the human mind
has a natural tendency to connect the occurrence of the moment,
whatever it may be, with the principal object of our wishes and our
feelings at the time. It matters not whether the two things be as
distinct and distant as the sun is from the moon; association in an
instant spins a thousand gossamer threads between them, forming a
glistening sort of spider-like bridge, scarcely discernible to other
people's eyes, but fully strong enough for fancy to run backwards and
forwards upon for ever.
Thus, then, was it with poor Marian de Vaux. It had been settled that
her marriage with her cousin was to take place on the day she became
of age--that is to say, in about three weeks. Now, whether she was
pleased with the arrangement or not, we do not at all intend to say;
but she had made up her mind to it completely; and the first thing
that Lord Dewry's broken sentences suggested to her mind was, that
some difficulty had occurred in regard to her union with Edward, and
that his father had withdrawn the consent he had been before so
willing to give.
When Lord Dewry left her, she was as pale as death; and though before
she reached the breakfast-room the colour had come back into her
cheek, yet all her former ideas were so completely scattered to the
four winds of heaven, that she felt it would be absolutely necessary
to think what her own conduct, under such circumstances, ought to be,
before she met any of the party; and especially before she met her
cousin Edward, as towards him, of course, the regulation of her
behaviour was most important. She turned, then, as we have before
said, to the music-room, and entering it ere she perceived that any
one was in it, found herself there alone with no other than Edward de
Vaux.
Whether he had gone there purposely or accidentally--from a habit
which some people have, of returning to take a look at places where
they have spent happy moments, or from a sort of presentiment that he
might find Marian there, we have no means of judging; but on her part
the meeting certainly was unexpected, and being such, it would hardly
be fair to look narrowly into her manner of receiving her lover's
first salutation, which salutation was sufficiently warm.
As soon as she recollected herself, however, she turned at once to the
subject of her thoughts. "But, Edward," she said, "this is a most
unfortunate occurrence--in regard to your father, I mean."
"Most unfortunate, indeed!" replied De Vaux, looking grave
immediately.
"But tell me what it is all about, Edward," rejoined his cousin. "I do
not understand your father's conduct. Do explain it to me!"
"I do not understand it either, my dear Marian," answered De Vaux;
"his conduct is quite inexplicable."
The tears would fain have run away over Marian de Vaux's cheeks; but
she shut the gates in time, and only one straggler made its escape
into the court of her eyes, unable to get farther. Her cousin did not
see one-half of what was going on in the fair tabernacle of her bosom;
but he saw that she was much distressed, and endeavoured to sooth her
with the same assurances wherewith he made his own mind easy in regard
to his father's conduct. "Nay, nay, dearest Marian!" he said, "do not
distress yourself about this business, unfortunate as it is. The
principal part of my father's present heat in the affair will pass
away, for a great share is mere passion. I cannot however flatter
myself into believing that his dislike will ever entirely subside,
because, as you know, he is not a man who changes easily in such
matters; but all his violence and his threatenings will die away and
end in nothing."
Marian, who had now recovered from her first emotion, paused, and
looked pensively upon the ground; but while her bosom seemed as calm
as monumental marble, there was a sad struggle going on within.
"Edward!" said she, at length, "we cannot tell what may be your
father's ultimate conduct; but, indeed, I think, that while his
present objection--or, as you call it, dislike--continues, we ought
certainly to delay our marriage."
"Good God, Marian!" exclaimed Edward de Vaux, in utter astonishment:
"in the name of heaven, my beloved, what has my father's dislike to
Colonel Manners to do with our union?"
"His dislike to Colonel Manners!" said Marian, blushing a good deal as
she began to perceive her mistake, and comprehended at a glance that
the clearing up of the matter might make an _expose_ of her inmost
thoughts that for reasons of her own she did not desire. "His dislike
to Colonel Manners! Oh, is that all! His words and conduct towards me
just now, made me think that his dislike was to me, Edward, and to our
union."
"And did the thought give you so much pain, Marian?" said De Vaux,
somewhat anxiously.
But Marian de Vaux had by this time completely mastered her agitation,
and she answered in her usual quiet sweet tone: "Of course it gave me
great pain, Edward, to think that I had lost my uncle's regard, and
great pain to think that the consequences might pain you. But tell me,
was it really nothing more than his dispute with Colonel Manners which
made your father's conduct so very strange?"
"Nothing more, I can assure you," answered her lover; "but you know
that my father, when he bursts forth into one of these fits of
passion, is like Don Quixote at the puppet-show, and deals his blows
to the right and left upon all things, whether they have offended him
or not."
"Hush, hush, Edward!" cried Marian, "he is your father, remember."
De Vaux coloured slightly, and indeed he had not got to the end of his
speech ere he had found that he had better have left it unsaid; for,
notwithstanding his general fastidiousness, and a certain degree of
bitter that mingled with his views of other people, he had too much
taste to find any pleasure in pointing out the faults or follies of
his near relations. He might feel them a little too sensitively, it is
true; but he seldom made them the subject of his conversation; and he
was now vexed, both that he had done so at all, and that Marian had
been the person to whom he had done it.
Thus, Edward de Vaux was a little out of humour with himself, and, as
a matter of course, he soon found cause to be dissatisfied with
others; for the human mind--to which nothing is so burdensome as
self-reproach of any kind--is always glad to cast a part of its load
upon the shoulders of other people. The first thing, then, that, upon
reflecting rapidly over the moments just passed, Edward de Vaux found
to be discontented with, was the manner in which Marian had spoken of
delaying their union; and once having started this idea, he hunted it
up and down through all the chambers and passages of his mind, like a
boy after a mouse. "Their marriage seemed to her a matter of great
indifference," he thought; and then he went onto persuade himself that
her love for him was of a very calm and tranquil character compared
with his for her. Indeed, it seemed little more than indifference, he
fancied, or at best _sisterly affection_; and at the very thought of
such a thing as _sisterly affection_, the spirit of Edward de Vaux
sprang up as if a serpent had crossed his path, although his person
remained perfectly calm, with his arm resting on the harpsichord, and
his fingers twisting some of the strings of the harp. One of the
strings breaking, with a sharp twang, called the spirit suddenly back
again; and he found himself standing abstractedly before his fair
cousin; while she looked upon him with a smile, which seemed to say,
"I could triumph, if I would! but it is not in my nature."
Now, Edward de Vaux, though he read the smile, and read it aright,
which is not always done in that difficult language of which it was
one of the hieroglyphics, was all the more puzzled when he had done.
But the fact is, that women's eyes, in matters of love, seem to be not
eyes but microscopes; and Marian had traced the whole fine progress of
Edward's thoughts and feelings, through every turning and winding, as
accurately as if he had laid them all open before her with his own
free will. Then, connecting the result with some foregone conclusions
in her own mind, the combination produced a smile, being, as we before
said, the equivalent sign, in the language mentioned, of the words, "I
could triumph, if I would! but it is not in my nature." There was,
however, a little mental reservation, perhaps, in regard to the
triumph, inasmuch as she reserved unto herself entire right and
privilege of triumphing hereafter, in case she should find it
necessary and expedient to do so.
The time occupied in reading the smile, together with the beauty of
the smile itself, and the exceeding loveliness of the lips on which it
rested, all tended to get the better of the demon in the heart of De
Vaux, and to make him feel, that as he loved her beyond anything on
earth, he must try to content himself with obtaining her upon her own
terms. Having come to this conclusion, it was natural enough that he
should seek to linger out the time with her alone; but Marian felt
that if she did stay at that moment, she might be obliged to triumph
in the way she wished not to do, or to explain her smile without
triumphing at all, which was still more disagreeable. She therefore
determined to retreat to the breakfast-room, in which she was sure of
finding allies; and which--as her apprehensions in regard to Lord
Dewry's disapprobation, and the consequent emotion, had now been
dissipated--she was no longer afraid of entering.
De Vaux would fain have detained her, pleading that he had had no
opportunity of conversing with her alone since his return, and urging
all those little arguments which we leave to imagination. Marian,
however, resisted with fortitude; and her lover, forced to content
himself with a promise to take a long ramble with him after breakfast,
as they had done in the days of their early youth, led her to the
breakfast-room, where they found the rest of the party assembled, and
conversing with as much ease and cheerfulness as if nothing had
occurred to disturb the tranquillity of the morning.
"Well, Edward," said Mrs. Falkland, "your father would not stay
longer; and I forbore to press him," she added, with a little
pardonable hypocrisy, "as I know that he has a good deal of business
on his hands; and when he is determined on any point, it is vain to
try to move him." As she spoke, she looked for an instant towards
Colonel Manners, to give more meaning to her words in her nephew's
ears than the words themselves imported.
"I saw my father myself, my dear aunt," replied De Vaux: "he was with
me in my room for half an hour, and explained the necessity of his
departure."
Colonel Manners could have smiled; but he thought it best to follow
the lead that had been given, and to appear ignorant of anything else
having taken place, though, of course, he felt internally convinced
that his unfortunate dispute with De Vaux's father had been the cause
of that nobleman's sudden and abrupt departure. "I think your father
mentioned last night," he said, in pursuance of this plan, "that he
was going to Dimden, did he not, De Vaux? Does it belong to your
family?"
"It always has done so," replied his friend: "it is here, very
near--but a few miles off; but it is not kept up as I think it should
be. My father always resides at the other house; and seems to have so
strong an aversion to Dimden, that, not contented with not living
there, he lets it fall somewhat to decay."
"I must make you take me there some morning," answered Colonel
Manners; "I have heard that it contains a fine collection of
pictures."
"Fine, I believe, but small," answered De Vaux, delighted to fancy
that his friend had totally forgotten the dispute of the night before,
and was ignorant of any fresh discomfort which had been produced by
that morning; "fine, I believe, but small--but I do not understand
anything about pictures."
"Nay, nay, Edward, do not say that," exclaimed Miss Falkland. "Do you
not love everything that is beautiful and fine in nature? have you not
an eye to mark every shade and every line that is worth looking at in
a landscape? and do you call that not understanding pictures? I have
seen you and Marian find out a thousand beautiful little tints and
touches, and lights and shades, in a view that I had generalized most
vulgarly."
Colonel Manners and Mrs. Falkland smiled; and perhaps both might have
said, had they spoken their thoughts, "It was because your two cousins
were in love, fair lady, and you were not!" They left the matter
unexplained, however, contenting themselves with thinking that Isadore
might, some time, learn the secret of finding out new beauties in a
view; and De Vaux answered in his own style, "Still, Isadore, I know
nothing about pictures, depend upon it. I cannot talk of _breadth_,
and _handling_ and _chiar' oscuro_, and _juice_, and _ordonnance_."
"Except when you mean a park of artillery, De Vaux," said Colonel
Manners; "but, if I understand you rightly, you can see and feel the
beauties of a picture as well as any one, though you cannot talk the
jargon of a connoisseur about it."
"Perhaps that is what I do mean," answered his friend; "but I believe
the truth is, Manners, that you and I are both far behind in the
elegant charlatanism of dilettanteship. Why, I have heard a man go on
by the hour with the _copia fandi_ of a Cicero about a picture, the
beauties of which he no more understood than the frame in which it was
placed. These men's minds are like a yard measure, a thing on which a
multitude of figures are written down, without the slightest use till
they are properly applied by some one else. When I am seeing anything
fine, heaven deliver me from the proximity of a walking dictionary of
technical terms!"
"They are very useful things in their way, Edward," answered Isadore;
"and only think, if these men can be so eloquent about things that
they do not feel, solely upon the strength of their jargon, how much
more eloquent you, who do feel them, would be, if you had the jargon
too."
She spoke jestingly; but De Vaux, whose spleen had been somewhat
excited, answered quickly, "I do not know, Isadore--I do not know. I
very often think that a great acquaintance with the jargon of art
tends to destroy the feeling for it. I have heard of a great critic,
who, on viewing the Apollo of Belvidere, declared that had the lip
been a hair's breadth longer, the god would have been lost. This was
all very connoisseurish and very true, no doubt; but, depend upon it,
that man felt the beauties of the immortal statue a thousand times
more, whose only exclamation on seeing it was, 'Good God!' I would
rather have the fresh feelings of even ignorance itself than the
tutored and mechanical taste that measures the cheek-bones of a Venus,
gauges the depth of colour in a Claude, or feels the edges of a book
instead of looking into the inside."
"Yes, but consider, Edward," said Marian, who since she entered the
room had been sitting silent at the breakfast-table, "it surely does
not follow that because we understand a thing well, we lose our first
and natural taste for it. If I could paint like Claude or Poussin, I
surely should not take less pleasure in a beautiful landscape."
"NO, Marian," exclaimed Miss Falkland, well knowing that De Vaux would
not support his sarcasms very vigorously against his cousin, "no; but,
depend upon it, no one who could paint like Claude or Poussin would
talk like a connoisseur."
"Perhaps," said Colonel Manners, "knowledge of all kinds may be like
the fabled cup, whose influence entirely depended upon those who drank
from it--to some it was death, to others immortal life; wisdom to
some, and foolishness to others. And thus I should think a great
acquaintance with any art, in some instances--where the taste was good
and the mind was strong--would refine the taste and give humility to
the mind, by showing what an unfathomable mine of undiscovered things
every study presents; while in other cases--where the taste was null
and the mind weak--the result would be the vanity of ill-digested
knowledge, and an idle gabble of unmeaning terms."
"And how often would the latter be the case when compared with the
former?" said De Vaux. "Answer me, my dear colonel."
"I am afraid, indeed, nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a
thousand," replied Colonel Manners: "and what, I must confess, is
worse still, the proportion of those who would bow to the vanity of
ill-digested knowledge, and give implicit credit to the gabble of
unmeaning terms, would be still greater; while taste, and genius, and
mind would be forced to content themselves with the poor thousandth
part of those whom they addressed."
"Then how is it, Colonel Manners," said Marian, "that we are told that
what is really good has always ultimate success, notwithstanding this
terrific array of folly against it?"
"Because truth is permanent in its very essence; and falsehood--of
every kind, as well false tastes as false statements--is evanescent,"
replied Colonel Manners. "Such is, I suppose, the broad reason; but,
to examine it more curiously, we shall find the progress of the thing
somewhat amusing: for even the ultimate establishment of truth and
wisdom is, in a great measure, owing to the voice of the false and
foolish. Here is a fine picture or a fine statue, of that chaste but
not attractive kind which ensures the admiration of those who can feel
beauty, but does not win the attention of the crowd. A man without
taste sees a man of taste gazing at it; hears him praise its beauties;
and, as there is nothing so servile or so vain as folly, instantly
affects to perceive the beauties which he never saw, and goes forth
to trumpet them as things of his own discovery. Others come to see,
and, as one fool will never be outdone by another, each sings its
praises in the same vociferous tone, each gains his little stock of
self-complacency from praising what others praise, and the reputation
of the thing is established."
"Unless," said De Vaux, "one of the learned fools we were talking
of should step in; and as his vanity is always of the pugnacious
kind--the vanity that will lead, instead of being led--he of course
condemns what others have been praising; declares that the statue has
no contour--that the picture wants breadth, force, chiar' oscuro. All
the others cry out that it is evident it does so; wonder they could
have admired it; and poor patient merit is kicked back into the
shade."
"But still, the same process takes place again," rejoined Colonel
Manners. "The learned fool and his generation die off; but still, the
merit of the thing remains till some one again rescues it from
oblivion, and its reputation is finally established."
"Indeed, now, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland, "I think that you
have admitted Marian's maxim with too little limitation. That what is
really good may always have ultimate success, is true, undoubtedly,
when spoken of transcendent merit or of superexcellent qualities; but
this transcendent merit only appears once, perhaps, in a century;
and the world shows that, in the great mass of worldly things, the
every-day virtues, the every-day exertions, the every-day characters
which surround us in this busy existence, virtue and merit are not
always ultimately successful. The religious, the political, the
scientific charlatan often carries all before him; while the man of
modest talent and unassuming virtue plods on his way unnoticed, and
dies forgotten. So much, indeed, is this the case, that do not we
daily see that many a shrewd man of real talent feels obliged to mix a
little charlatanism with his other qualities for the sake of ensuring
success? If Marian had said that things which are intrinsically
immortal--which have in themselves inherent permanence--must have
ultimate success when they are really good, and condemnation when
they are bad, I would have granted it at once; but in all lesser
things--and the world is made up of them--I sincerely believe that
success depends upon accident or impudence."
Colonel Manners smiled, and abandoned, or at least modified, his
theory, admitting that Mrs. Falkland was right; for he was one of
those men who, having generally reason on their side, can be candid
without fear. But there was also something more than this in his
candour: it sprung from his heart--it was a part of his character; and
though it may seem unnatural to the greater part of mankind, it is no
less a fact, that he was so great a lover of truth that, when once he
was convinced, he never dreamed of contending against his conviction.
He therefore gave up the position, that merit would always be
ultimately successful, limiting it according to Mrs. Falkland's
showing.
Isadore added, that she thought it must be so, and would be sorry to
believe it otherwise, as the occasional separation of virtue and
success in this world afforded to her mind one of the strongest
corroborative assurances of a future state. De Vaux laughed at her,
and called her a little philosopher, and the conversation branched off
to other things.
Breakfast is a meal at which one loves to linger. The daylight and the
wide world have all, more or less, an idea of labour attached to them;
and though that labour be of the lightest kind, there is still a
feeling in going forth after breakfast that we are about to take our
share of the original curse; which feeling inclines man naturally to
linger over the tea and coffee, and saunter to the window, or look
into the fire, or play with the knife and fork for a few minutes more
than is positively required. What between one oral occupation or
another, then, the party at Mrs. Falkland's breakfast-table contrived
to pass an hour very pleasantly. Colonel Manners, when all had risen,
bestowed five minutes more upon the long window--while Isadore and her
mother, De Vaux and Marian, held separate councils on the future
proceedings of the day--and then retired to his own room, to write a
note of business to some of his people in London. He had not long been
gone when the fat and venerable servant, whom we have called Peter,
entered the room, bearing a note, which, with much respectful
ceremony, he delivered over to the hands of Miss De Vaux. Marian
turned a little red and a little pale; and, had a jealous husband seen
her receive that billet, he might have begun to suspect one whose
every thought was pure; but the truth was, that poor Marian had
instantly recognised her uncle's hand; and as her last ideas in
respect to him had not been very pleasant, she was afraid that the new
ones about to be called up by his note might be still more
disagreeable. Without pausing to examine the scrawl upon the back,
which implied her name, she broke the seal, and read. As she did so, a
gentle smile and a softer suffusion stole over her face; but then she
became more grave, then looked vexed, and then handed the paper to
Mrs. Falkland, saying, "Do read it, my dear aunt; my uncle is both
very kind and very unkind; but, indeed, it concerns you and Edward a
great deal more than it does me."
Mrs. Falkland took the letter and read it, the substance of which was
to the following effect:--In the first place, the noble lord began by
expressing more affection for Marian de Vaux than he had ever been
known to express for man, woman, or child before in his existence. He
next went on to say, that there was nothing on earth which had ever
given him so much pleasure as the prospect of his son's marriage with
her on whom he had been showering such praises: it was the solacing
idea of his old age, he said, and the compensating joy for many a past
sorrow. He then declared that he had hoped to be much with Edward and
Marian during the days that were to intervene ere their marriage could
be celebrated, and to have witnessed the ceremony as the most joyful
and satisfactory one that he could ever behold; and next came the real
object and substance-matter of the whole; for he concluded by
expressing his bitter disappointment at not being able to do so, from
the circumstance of a man who had so grossly insulted him as Colonel
Manners had done, continuing in his sister's house, as her honoured
guest and his son's bosom friend. Marian would understand, he said,
that it was impossible for him to present himself again at
Morley-house while Colonel Manners was there, without loss of dignity
and honour; but he nevertheless besought her to let every thing
proceed as if he were present; and he added a desire to see her as
soon after her marriage as possible.
While Mrs. Falkland, and then Edward de Vaux, read the letter in turn,
Marian kept her eyes fixed on the ground. The fact is, however, that
there was much in her uncle's letter to pain her, as well as to
gratify her; and she would even willingly have sacrificed the
gratifying part, if by so doing she could have done away the painful.
It was very unpleasant, in the first place, to be pressed by
assurances of affection and kindness to commit a gross injustice for
the gratification of the person expressing that affection; and it was
not a little disagreeable to think of her marriage to Lord Dewry's son
taking place without his father's presence and countenance. Women of
the finest minds and the justest feelings will think of what the world
will say; and God forbid they ever should not. Marian de Vaux,
therefore, thought of what the world would say, in regard to Lord
Dewry being absent from her wedding; and she could not help feeling
that the comments of all her kind acquaintances would be painful,
both to her pride and her delicacy. All this was passing in her mind,
while her eyes were busy with a pair of nondescripts on the damask
table-cloth: but let it be clearly understood, that she never did
Colonel Manners the wrong to wish that he should go, on account of any
pain that she herself might suffer. She wished, indeed, that her uncle
would be more just, more placable, more generous; but she felt clearly
where the fault lay, and she never turned her eyes in the other
direction. Mrs. Falkland appreciated Marian's feelings in almost all
cases; but at present she estimated to the full all that would be
distressing to her niece in the conduct of her brother, and thought,
perhaps, that Marian might be more affected by it than she really
was. "My dear Marian," she said, "this is very disagreeable for us
all, and must be very painful to you, my sweet girl, in particular.
Nevertheless we must do justice to ourselves. Were it any thing like a
sacrifice of mere pleasure, we might and would willingly do a great
deal to satisfy your uncle, and remove the unpleasant load he casts
upon us; but this is a matter of right and wrong, in which he is
decidedly in the wrong; and to yield to him would not only be
dishonourable to ourselves, but seems to me quite impossible. The
demeanour of Colonel Manners to me and mine has been every thing
that I could desire, and is in every respect accordant with his
well-established character, as a most gallant soldier and accomplished
gentleman; and I can neither suffer the whims nor the ill-temper of
any person, however near the relationship, to alter my conduct in such
a case. What do you say, Edward?
"I agree with you entirely, my dear aunt," he replied, "and so I told
my father this morning. Holding Manners, as I do, to be most nobly in
the right, I cannot suffer either my opinion of him, or my behaviour
towards him, to be changed by the sudden dislike of even my parent."
"And let me say, Edward, a most capricious and Lord Dewry-ish dislike
it is--though he be your father and my uncle," added Miss Falkland.
"What can he find to dislike in Colonel Manners? He is not beautiful,
it is true: but he saved your life at the risk of his own; he nursed
you in sickness; he was your companion in danger, and your friend at
all times; so that if any one loved him, it should be your father.
Besides, could any one have made himself more agreeable than he has
done since he has been here? What pretence does Lord Dewry think mamma
could have for turning such a man out of her house, when she had so
lately invited him in the most pressing terms?"
"Oh, of course, that is quite out of the question," said Mrs.
Falkland, smiling at her fair daughter's enthusiasm; "though I cannot
help thinking, Edward, that your father's design, in that letter, was
to make us do so, by rendering the contrary so disagreeable to us."
"If it were so, he will alter his behaviour," replied De Vaux, "when
he finds that we cannot follow such a course; and I am sure you think
with me, my dear aunt, that the only plan we can pursue is, to do as
he bids us in his note, and proceed as if he were present."
"Most certainly," replied Mrs. Falkland: "do you not think so too,
Marian?"
"Oh yes, Marian does," cried Isadore Falkland; "I am sure she does."
"I am afraid we must do so," answered Marian, smiling somewhat sadly;
"but, at all events, my dear aunt, I had better write to my uncle, and
I will try to persuade him to change his determination."
"Do so, my dear girl," replied her aunt; "though I am afraid you will
find it in vain."
Marian sat down and wrote, and put as much gentle sweetness into her
note as would have gone far to soften any other man upon earth. She
said not a word in regard to Colonel Manners, his quarrel with her
uncle, or her own feelings on the subject: but she expressed to Lord
Dewry how deeply gratified she was by his tenderness and affection;
how ardently she hoped to retain it when she should become the wife of
his son. She then went on to tell him, in language that came rushing
from her heart, how bitterly painful it would be to her, if he
continued the same determination of not being present at her marriage;
and she entreated, with persuasions that none but woman could have
written, that he would yield his resolution in this respect. In the
whole course of her letter--though it was as artless as any collection
of words that ever was penned--there was not one syllable that could
offend the pride, or the vanity, or the feelings of her uncle--not one
that could afford anger or irritation the least footing to rest upon.
Had it been calculated upon the most experienced view of all the
follies and passions of human nature, it could not have been better
constructed; and yet, as we have said, it was as artless a composition
as ever was penned: but the secret was, that it came from a fine, a
gentle, and a sensitive mind.
And now, while she folds, seals, and addresses it, with neat and
careful hand, and gives it to the servant to be sent off immediately,
we shall take the liberty of turning to another part of the subject,
and treating of the person whose presence was the point of difficulty.
CHAPTER VI.
When Lord Dewry quitted Colonel Manners at the end of the
flower-garden, as we have shown in a preceding chapter, the gallant
soldier had turned back towards the house, but with steps much less
rapid than those of the peer, from the simple fact of no violent
passion moving in his breast. In truth, it would seem, after all, that
man, notwithstanding his great pretensions, his reasonings about his
own existence, and his conceit in his painted jacket, is not at all
unlike one of those figures that children buy at fairs, with his arms
and legs, and even his head, hung on by wires; and with the passions
to pull the string at the back, not only without his volition, but
often against his will. Wrath pulls, and he kicks; revenge pulls, and
he strikes; jealousy pulls, and he writhes; fear pulls, and he runs;
love pulls, and he dances; and, as no one of these passions was behind
Colonel Manners at the time, he had walked on slowly and deliberately
towards the house, sometimes turning to look at the landscape,
sometimes trifling with a flower, but doing neither one nor the other,
perhaps, quite so often as when he set out that day upon his morning's
walk.
Still, it is not to be supposed that, though no very violent affection
of the mind followed Lord Dewry's departure, Colonel Manners remained
perfectly indifferent to what had occurred: on the contrary, it threw
him into a fit of musing, if not of deep thought, and produced
reflections which ended in resolutions, such as Colonel Manners might
be expected to form. At the peer's wrath he laughed, and laughed at
his menaces equally, secure in that calm, self-confident courage,
which, not knowing what fear is, never dreams that it can be
attributed to us; but at the uncomfort that his dispute with De Vaux's
father might and would produce in the family he had come to visit,
Colonel Manners did not laugh. He had assented on the preceding night,
in words which, with him, amounted to a promise, to forget the baron's
rudeness, and not to suffer it to abridge his stay; but, at present,
new provocation had been given, and he had every reason to believe
that his visit could not be prolonged to the period he had at first
proposed, without material uncomfort to the family at Morley House,
however strongly their kindness or their politeness might urge his
stay.
"Doubtless," thought Colonel Manners,--for we must put his
private cogitations into the form of that necessary folly, a
soliloquy,--"doubtless, the worthy peer will not go and expose himself
so much to his own family, as to tell them what has occurred between
us this morning; but equally, without doubt, he will contrive, by his
demeanour towards me, to render the house, not only very unpleasant to
me, but also to all its occupants; and, therefore, as this is a field
where honour is neither to be gained nor supported, I must even beat a
retreat. Yet De Vaux will, I know, feel very much mortified, if he
fancies that his father is the cause of my departure; and therefore I
suppose that the best plan be, to wait a day or two, and then, with
the first letters that arrive,--and I must receive some soon, to plead
important business, and set out. I suppose I must bear with this
ill-tempered old gentleman's behaviour as best I may for eight and
forty hours, though I am afraid it will be a struggle to avoid
retorting a little of his bitterness upon himself."
Such had been the substance of Colonel Manners' thoughts upon this
subject, as he walked back, and such the determination he formed; but
as he did form them, there was something like a sigh escaped from his
bosom. The reception he had met with from Mrs. Falkland and her
family, on his first arrival, had been so warm and kind, that all the
best feelings of his heart had been enlisted on their side. He had
completely made up his mind to spend a happy three weeks with people
who seemed, in every respect, so amiable; and although he felt that it
might be a little dangerous,--by making him feel more acutely, from
comparison, the want of domestic ties and comforts,--although he felt
it might be a little dangerous, yet he had experienced a pleasure at
the idea of thus dwelling, even for a short space, in the midst of a
true old English family, that made him bitterly regret the necessity
of foregoing what he had set his heart upon. As he thought of going
forth again alone, it seemed as if it were the voice of fate that
forbade him to expose himself to the sight of feelings and enjoyments
that he was never to know personally, and sent him back imperiously to
the solitary state of existence which was to be his portion; and
although Colonel Manners was accustomed to the contemplation, and had
nerved his mind, not only to bear the uncomforts of his lot, but to
resist every thought that would teach him to repine, yet there were
times--and this was one--when he could not but feel the chill wind of
solitude blow from the dreary prospect of the future, and blight even
the enjoyment of the present. A dissertation on the moral and physical
nature of man might be given to prove to a demonstration, that
domestic ties are a necessity of his existence: and let any man gaze
forward into future years, and fancy that some cold barrier is placed
between him and domestic affection; that no kindred eye is to brighten
at his presence, no affectionate lip smile at his happiness, no tear
of sympathy to wash away one half of his griefs, no cheerful voice to
dispel the thoughts of care, no assiduous hand to smooth the pillow of
sickness, and close the eye of death,--let him picture his being
solitary, his joys unshared, his sorrows undivided, his misfortunes
unaided but by general compassion, his sickness tended by the slow
hand of mercenaries, and his eyes closed, while the light has scarce
departed, by the rude touch of some weary and indifferent menial,--let
him fancy all this, and then he will feel, indeed, that domestic ties
are a necessity of our existence; at least, if he be not either drunk
with licentious passions, or a mere calculating machine.
We do not mean to say that all these ideas, or any one of them,
presented themselves to the mind of Colonel Manners. Far be it from us
to insinuate that he was foolish enough to give a vivid form and
painful minuteness to the evils of a state that he believed he could
not avoid. He struggled even against the general impression; but, as
we have said, there were moments in his life--and this was one--when,
notwithstanding reason and resolution, he would feel bitterly that it
is sad and sorrowful to pass through life alone, to spend one's days
in solitude, and to go down into the grave without a tie. The
impression was so strongly raised, and clung so firmly to his mind, at
the moment we speak of, that he took a turn of a hundred yards back
upon the walk, to give the thoughts full range. Then remembering
himself, he broke out into an involuntary exclamation of, "This is
folly!" and turned quickly back to the house.
In the breakfast-room he found Miss Falkland alone, and was not sorry
so to find her; for there was in her conversation a pleasant and
good-humoured sparkling, a frank and fearless liveliness, which amused
and interested him. Besides, Colonel Manners was by no means a man to
object to the society of a very beautiful girl: on that score he was
quite fearless; for he had so guarded his heart by rampart, and
bastion, and half-moon, that he feared no attack, either by siege or
storm. The thing that he feared was, the sight of a state of happiness
which he coveted, but did not hope for; and therefore he could enjoy
the gay conversation and pleasing presence of Isadore Falkland without
alloy, though he might apprehend that a lengthened stay, in the midst
of a cheerful family circle, might deepen his regret at his own
loneliness.
Now, although the house of Mrs. Falkland, like most other houses of
its date, had a certain ramblingness of construction, midway between
the Gothic of Henry the Seventh's and the anomalous architecture of
the nineteenth century, yet the rooms were sufficiently proximate to
allow Colonel Manners to hear every now and then, as the servant
opened and shut the door of the breakfast-room, the voice of Lord
Dewry, in tones more sharp than was becoming. Nor was he slack in
attributing the acerbity of the sounds he heard to their right cause;
so that, as we have before shown, when Mrs. Falkland and her nephew
spoke of the departure of the noble lord as a thing that had taken
place in the ordinary course of affairs, Manners had very nearly
smiled.
However, having taken his determination in regard to his proceedings,
and, seeing no better plan that he could pursue, he suffered the
matter to pass quietly, well knowing that real delicacy never makes a
noise. To say the truth, he was not at all sorry to find that Lord
Dewry had taken his departure; for he had every inclination to make
himself both comfortable and agreeable while he did stay, neither of
which objects are very attainable in the same house with a man who
wants to fight a duel with you. After breakfast, as Manners was too
much of a general to leave any thing to chance, he retired to his own
apartments, in order to write such letters to London as would ensure
immediate replies of the kind that would afford him a fair excuse for
breaking through his engagement with De Vaux, without rendering the
matter painful to his friend by any direct reference to his father;
and, when this was accomplished, he returned to the rest of the party,
whom he found in the act of seeing the footman leave the room with
Marian's note to her uncle.
"We propose to take a walk, Manners," said De Vaux, as he entered; "I
must show you the beauties of our county; and I think we will go upon
the path which leads across the hill, and brings us through the wood
to within a few hundred yards of the spot where we saw the gipsies. We
call it Marian's Walk, as she might always be found there when we were
but little boys and girls."
"It might have been called Edward's Walk as well, then," answered
Isadore, gayly; "for I am sure she was never there without you,
Edward. At all events, if you did not go with her, you were not long
before you found her."
"And can Miss de Vaux venture on so long a walk?" asked Colonel
Manners, "in the present day, when the extent of a lady's morning
promenade is twice round the room and once round the garden--when
shoemakers stare, I am told, at the name of walking shoes, and declare
that they never heard of such things?"
Marian smiled. "You are severe upon us, Colonel Manners," she said;
"but this walk is not so far either--though it is a little steep."
"It seemed to me nearly six miles," replied Colonel Manners; "six
miles, at least, from this spot to the place De Vaux mentions."
"Oh, that was because you came by the road," replied Isadore: "if you
had come over the hill, you would have shortened the way by one
half--but I forgot; you would have met with some accident also, as it
was dark, and you were on horseback. It is not much more than two
miles to the place where the path again joins the high-road after
passing through Morley wood."
"If you find it so short, I trust you are to be of the party, Miss
Falkland," said Colonel Manners.
"Oh, most certainly," she replied. "It was all very well for Edward
and Marian to wander through the woods together when they were boys
and girls; but now propriety, you know, Colonel Manners, requires a
sedate and aged chaperon; and besides, I could not leave the party of
such an odd and unfortunate number as three: I should be afraid of
some accident happening to you by the way."
"But three is a fortunate number, my gay cousin," replied De Vaux,
smiling, "not an unfortunate one, by every rule of cabalistic
science."
"In figures, but not in love, Edward," answered his cousin, with a gay
laugh. "At least, I have read as much in your face, more than once,
when I happened to be the unfortunate third--"
"Hush, hush, Isadore," cried Marian. "Come, let us dress ourselves to
go;" and taking her cousin's arm, she hurried her away. Now Marian de
Vaux, who knew her cousin well, was quite sure that Isadore would not
push her raillery of her lover one step too far; but still she was not
sorry to break off Isadore's discourse; for love is one of those
things that people may talk about a great deal when they feel it not,
but which they bury deep in the heart's innermost tabernacle as soon
as they know its value, and, like misers, tremble even when their
treasure is named.
Every one was soon ready to set out; and strolling through the garden
separately, they proceeded to what was called the little gate, which
gave them exit upon the road of which they were in search. By
separately, I mean that neither of the gentlemen offered an arm to
their female companions so long as they were within rows of box-wood
bordering and upon gravel walks. There would have been something
ridiculous in it; although, perhaps, the quality of walking arm-in-arm
is to be looked upon as one of the peculiar privileges of humanity,
which as much distinguishes man from other animals, as any other
quality of his mind or body. He has been called, by those who strove
to define him, "a forked radish, fantastically cut," "a viviparous
biped, without feathers," "a cooking animal," and many another name.
But had they called him "the animal that walks arm-in-arm,"
philosophers might have come nearer to his distinctive quality; for
not only is it a thing that no other animal does, but it also gives at
once the idea of many of the finer qualities of man's mind, and is, in
fact, a sort of living hieroglyphic of affection and sympathy, and
mutual assistance and support.
Now Colonel Manners and Edward de Vaux, looking upon the privilege of
walking arm-in-arm in its true light, might consider it with too much
reverence to enter upon it lightly, and therefore not offer to
exercise it towards their fair companions, till the steepness of the
way and the openness of the country seemed to render it necessary for
their convenience and protection. There might, indeed, be another
reason, which was, that in issuing forth from the house, a little
derangement in the natural order of things had taken place--some stray
glove, or wandering stick, or something of the kind, had been
forgotten, so as to throw out the order of the march; and Colonel
Manners found himself walking beside Marian de Vaux, while De Vaux was
at the elbow of his cousin Isadore. Colonel Manners, in agreeing to go
out upon this expedition, had perfectly well understood the part he
was held to play; and De Vaux had the most firm and implicit reliance
upon his friend's tact in the business; so that by a tacit convention
it was arranged between them, that the long ramble which Marian had
promised to take with her lover was to be as completely solitary and
agreeable as if they had not a friend or relation upon the face of the
earth. But the derangement which had taken place in the position of
the forces of course rendered a counter movement on the part of De
Vaux and his friend necessary; and yet, as the walk they followed was
narrow, and did not admit of the advance of more than two abreast, the
desired evolution could not be performed without rendering the object
unpleasantly obvious, till some little accident came to their aid.
Colonel Manners, however, had been out in the morning, as we have
already seen, to reconnoitre the ground; and as soon as he saw the
difficulty, he instantly laid out the plan of the evolutions, and
fixed upon the exact position, walking on still by the side of Marian
de Vaux, and talking of _les mouches qui volent_.
But to proceed. Colonel Manners and Marian reached the little gate
first, and unlocked it, and then Colonel Manners halted till Miss de
Vaux and Miss Falkland had passed. The two ladies immediately halted
on the bank of the little road facing the gate, with Marian on the
right hand and Isadore on the left. Colonel Manners then resigned the
command of the gate to Edward de Vaux; but, in marching out, while the
other locked the door and brought the key, Manners took up a position
upon the extreme left. De Vaux then advanced to the right of the line,
and, wheeling about, gave his arm to Marian; Colonel Manners offered
his to Miss Falkland, and led the way up the road to the left. This
detail is given as an exemplification of Manners' military skill,--a
quality which, unfortunately, we shall have no other opportunity of
displaying throughout this book. Nor was Isadore Falkland's knowledge
of strategy less marked, in taking up the position to the left, as it
entirely commanded the road up which they were about to proceed; and
as people in love in general walk a great deal slower than people not
in love, it was necessary that she and Colonel Manners should lead the
way, in order at once to give Edward and Marian de Vaux the protection
of their presence and the benefit of their absence.
Colonel Manners and Miss Falkland did not lose much time in silence,
for they were both people who could talk very pleasantly; and,
whatever they might think in regard to themselv
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