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The Convict: A Tale

by G. P. R. James · English · Gutenberg #51164 · 860,137 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Convict: A Tale

Author: G. P. R. James


        
Release date: February 9, 2016 [eBook #51164]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONVICT: A TALE ***

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THE CONVICT.

A Tale.


BY

G. P. R. JAMES



LONDON:
SIMMS AND M'INTYRE,
PATERNOSTER ROW; AND DONEGALL ST. BELFAST.
1851.






THE CONVICT.




CHAPTER I.


It may be very well in most cases to plunge, according to the rule of
the Latin poet, into the middle of things. It may be very well even,
according to the recommendation of Count Antoine Hamilton, to 'begin
with the beginning.' But there are other cases where there may be
antecedents to the actual story, which require to be known before the
tale itself is rightly comprehended. With this view, then, I will give
one short scene not strictly attached to that which is to follow, ere
I proceed with my history.

In a small high room of the oldest part of St. John's College,
Cambridge, in a warm and glowing day of the early spring, and at about
seven o'clock in the morning, there sat a young man with his cheek
leaning on his hand, and his eyes fixed upon the page of an open book.
There were many others closed and unclosed upon the table around him,
as well as various pieces of paper, traced with every sort of curious
figure which geometrical science ever discovered or measured. The
page, too, on which his eyes were bent, was well nigh as full of
ciphers as of words, and it was evident, from everything around, that
the studies of the tenant of that chamber were of a very abstruse
character.

And yet to gaze at him as he sits there, and to consider attentively
the lines of the face, and the development of the organs of the head,
the physiognomist or phrenologist would, at once pronounce that,
although by no means wanting in any of the powers of mind, that young
man was by nature disposed to seek the pleasures of imagination rather
than the dry and less exciting, though more satisfactory, results of
science. There were some slight indications, too, about his room, of
such tastes and propensities. In a wine-glass, half filled with water,
were some early flowers, so arranged that every hue gained additional
beauty from that with which it was contrasted; a flute and some music
lay upon a distant table; one window, which looked towards the
gardens, and through which came the song of birds and the fragrant
breath of the fresh fields, was thrown wide open; while another, which
looked towards courts and buildings, was closed, and had the curtains
drawn. Nevertheless, had any eye watched him since he rose, it would
have found that from the hour of five he had remained intent upon the
problems before him, suffering not a thought to wander, neither rising
from the table, nor turning his eyes even for a moment to the
worshipped beauty of external nature. The air came in gently from
without, and fanned his cheek, and waved the curls of his dark hair;
the smell of the flowers was wafted to the sense; the song of the bird
sounded melodious in his ear; but not the breeze, nor the odour, nor
the lay called off his attention from the dry and heavy task before
him. His cheek was pale with thought, his fine eyes looked oppressed
with study, though still bright; and the broad expansive brow ached
with the weary labours of many a day and night: labours to which he
saw no end, from which he hardly hoped to obtain any very great
result. Tall and manly in person, with limbs apparently formed for
robust exercises, and a mind fitted for the enjoyment of every refined
and graceful pleasure, he had chained down the body and, I may almost
add, the spirit, to the hard captivity of intense study, in the hope
some day of making himself a great name, and recovering from the grasp
of fortune that wealth and station which had been the inheritance of
his ancestors.

Still he felt weary and sick at heart; still hopeless despondency
would hold him enthralled; and though, with, an unflinching
perseverance, for many a long year he had pursued the same weary
round, he felt that he was fitted for other things, and regretted that
the energies of his nature were doomed to struggle with objects the
most repulsive to his tastes.

There was a knock at the door; not a light and timid tap, but strong
and familiar. Without raising his eyes, however, he said, "Come in,"
and the next instant a gentleman entered, in a black gown and cap. He
was an elderly man, with a somewhat florid and jovial, but upon the
whole, benevolent countenance. His forehead was high, and very broad
over the brows, and there were lines of thought upon it which mingled
somewhat curiously with the cheerful and almost jocular expression of
the lips and eyes. Indeed, he was a man of great eminence in science
and in literature, who, having in early life conquered all the
difficulties of very arduous pursuits, found no longer any trouble in
those tasks which would have startled or overpowered many another man.
and who consequently walked lightly under burdens which had become
familiar, and which had in reality no weight for him, because he had
become accustomed to bear them.

"Well, Edward," he said--the young man was a distant relation of his
own--"still poring and plodding! My dear lad, you must not carry this
too far. You have already done much, very much, and you must take some
thought of health."

The young man rose with a faint smile, and placed a chair for his old
relation. "I have both your example and your precept, my dear sir," he
replied, "for pursuing the course before me without relaxation. You
told me, some four years ago, that before you were as old as I was
then, you had taken high honours at this university. I could only do
so last year; and you have often said that unremitting study in youth
is the only means of winning a title in after years to repose and
enjoyment. Besides, I must study hard to recover lost time, and to fit
myself for the course before me."

"True, true, very true!" rejoined the elder man; "but you have studied
hard for nearly six years now. There was the great fault. You did not
begin early enough; your father should have sent you here full two
years before you came. Let me see: you are now six-and-twenty, and for
any man destined to fight his way in one of the learned professions,
it is never too early to begin to labour."

"But neither my poor father nor myself," replied the young gentleman,
"were at all aware that I should ever have, as you so justly call it,
to fight my way in one of the learned professions, I was then the heir
of six or seven thousand a year; I have now only the income of a
fellowship; and that I could not have obtained had I not been
supported here by your bounty."

"Say nothing of that Edward," replied the other; "neither let us look
back. You have done enough for the present. You have distinguished
yourself here; after the long vacation you will be called to the bar,
and eminence, doubtless, is before you; but still there are a few hard
steps to be taken, which require strength of body as well as powers of
mind, and in your case both mind and body will suffer if you pursue
this course any farther. Come, I have something to propose which I
think will be gratifying to you, and which I know will be good for
you. The friends of a young nobleman, whose father I knew well, have
written to request that I would recommend to them some competent
person to accompany their relation upon a short tour which he is about
immediately to make upon the continent. The terms they propose are
very liberal; the expedition will be a pleasant one; and if you choose
to undertake the task, it will refresh and invigorate you, both
mentally and corporeally. The young man will be of age in the autumn,
and will return about the very time when you are to be called to the
bar. The connexion is a very good one, and few men get on in life
without powerful friends. By both information and character you are
fitted to do justice to the trust reposed in you, and my advice is to
accept the offer without hesitation. You know I would not recommend
anything to you without due consideration of all the circumstances."

The young man paused thoughtfully ere he replied. The temptation was
too strong to be resisted. At the time when all his prospects in life
were blighted he had been preparing to set out, with all the resources
of wealth at his command, upon such a tour as that in which he was now
desired to share. Very different were the circumstances, it is true,
but still the pleasures which he had then anticipated had nought to do
with wealth, except as a means. He had formed no schemes of display,
of luxury, or splendour: he had only thought of visiting scenes rich
in natural beauty and historic recollections; of treading where great
men had trod; of dwelling for a time where great deeds had been
performed; of seeing the face of earth in its most beautiful and its
grandest aspects; and all that was now before him. But yet there was a
certain repugnance to the idea of dependence, to the thought of
linking himself, even for a time, to a being of whose character,
conduct, and views, he knew nothing, and his first reply was doubtful.

"Who is this young lord, my dear sir?" he asked. "I should be very
willing to go, as you judge it right, for, to say the truth, I am very
weary of this life, which only the strong impulse of necessity has
made me follow; but you can easily conceive I should not like the task
of guiding every young man through Europe;" and he added, with a
melancholy smile, "I am not fitted for bear-leading, as you know, and
in this world there are many bears in high places."

"True," replied his relation, with a slightly sarcastic smile, and a
touch of that unextinguishable jealousy which exists between St.
John's and another great college--"true; we see that every day at
Trinity; but this young man is not a bear, nor a bear's cub; or, at
all events, he is well licked. It is young Lord Hadley, whom you must
have seen."

"Oh! I know him well," replied the student, with a well-satisfied
look. "Though not perfection, he is very much better than most young
men of the present day; a little rash, a little given to dissipation,
perhaps, but right at heart, kind and well feeling; too easily led,
but yet, I do believe, always preferring right to wrong."

"As to rashness," replied his companion, "you are rash enough, Ned,
yourself; and as to his being easily led, that will be an advantage
while he is with you. You have that decision of character which he
wants; and will, I am sure, have power to restrain his habits of
dissipation, and supply that firmness, for the time at least, of which
he is destitute. I can see by your face that you are willing to
undertake the task, and, therefore, I shall write in that sense."

Thus saying, he was turning towards the door; but he stopped, after
taking a step or two, and coming back to the table, laid down upon it
a piece of paper, which, with one of those curious tricks whereof most
men have some, he had been twisting first round one finger and then
round another, during the whole time that the conversation lasted.
"You will want a supply for your preparations, my dear lad," he said;
"there is a cheque for a couple of hundred pounds. You can repay me
when you are a judge."

"Indeed I do not want it," answered the other, with a slight glow
coming into his face; "I have quite enough."

"Pooh! nonsense," said the old man; "if you have enough without it,
buy oranges with it." And without waiting for farther discussion, he
left the room.




CHAPTER II.


It was a dark autumnal night, the wind was strong and very fierce,
sweeping along over fields and downs, tearing the branches and the
withering leaves from the trees, and screaming along the rocks and
tall precipitous cliffs upon a high and iron-bound part of the coast
of England. There was no moon in the sky, but from time to time the
sudden glance and disappearance of a star showed how rapidly the dull
gray clouds were hurried over the face of the heavens; and the moaning
of the trees and shrubs, added to the wild whistling of the gale,
showed how it vexed the still, reposing, rooted things of creation in
its harsh fury as it swept through them.

On the summit of one of the most elevated points upon the coast there
was a little indentation, extending from the highest point of the
downs to the edge of the cliff, where it was somewhat lower than at
other places. This little hollow was sheltered from most of the winds
that blew, except when a gale came very nearly due west; and in
consequence of this protection some low scrubby trees had gathered
themselves together, as in a place of refuge, never venturing to raise
their heads above the neighbouring slopes, but spreading out broad and
tolerably strong in the lower part of the dell. From them there was a
footpath extending on either side; on the one, leading to the top of
the precipice, on the other, to the high road, which lay at about half
a mile's distance. The path was little frequented, and the short
mountain grass encroaching upon it here and there, almost obliterated
the track, but in passing towards the top of the cliff it wound in and
out amongst some large stones and rocks, with here and there a
scattered tree overshadowing it as it ran on.

By the side of one of those rocks, on the night of which I speak, and
guarded by it from the direct course of the blast, were seated three
powerful men, each of whom had reached what is called the middle age.
They had a lantern with them; and between the lantern and the road one
of them was seated with his back to the latter, his left shoulder
touching the rock, and his face towards the sea. Thus, no one coming
from the eastward could see the light itself, although, perhaps, a
faint general glimmer could be perceived; but at the same time the
lantern could be distinguished by any one on the sea at the distance
of half a mile or more. Within that distance, the interposing cliff
must have cut it off from the eyes of wanderers upon the wave.

The men were evidently watching for something, and as usually happens
in such moments of expectation, their conversation was broken and
desultory. None of them seemed to be armed, and two of them were
clothed in sailors' jackets, while the third wore a large shaggy great
coat, such as was commonly at that time used by pilots. He was a tall,
strong, good-looking man enough, with a dark complexion, and a skin
apparently well accustomed to exposure in all sorts of weathers, being
rough and florid, and appearing, perhaps, more so than was really the
case, from the glare of the lantern and the contrast of his own gray
hair, as its long curls waved about in the night wind. The others were
ordinary, hard-featured men, with that sort of grave, self-composed
aspect, which is not at all unusual in sailors of all classes: men of
few words and vigorous action, who can perhaps troll a song or crack a
jest with their boon companions, but who are the most opposite
creatures in the world to the sailor of drama or romance. But he in
the rough coat had something about him which could not well be passed
without attention by any one who had even ordinary powers of
observation; and yet it is very difficult to describe what it was, for
as he sat there perfectly still and tranquil, there was nothing, to
all appearance, likely to call for remark. Yet it would have been
difficult for any one to watch him at that moment without feeling that
there was a something impressive in his figure, a dignity of aspect it
may be called, for there is such a thing even in the rudest and least
cultivated.

The wind whistled loud and strong; it was heard rushing and roaring
farther down, and hissing and screaming high above over the bleak tops
of the hills. There was a cheerless, desolate sound about it: a sound
of warning and of woe. Well might the traveller hasten towards his
journey's end, and the weary, houseless wanderer seek the shelter of
shed or out-house, or the warm side, of the farmer's stack. But still
those three men sat there almost motionless. The rock protected them
to a certain degree, but the blast would whirl round the point and
sweep chilling in amongst them. They were very silent, too, and not a
word had been spoken for some ten minutes, when one said to the other,
"It won't do; the wind's getting to the southward, and if it shifts
but one point she can't lay her course."

"We must wait and see," said the man in the rough coat. "I hope they
won't try, if the wind does shift."

"It has shifted already," said the third; "it is coming right over
from the great house."

No reply was made, and they all fell into silence again.

"I hope your people are keeping a good look-out, Master Clive," said
one of the two sailor-looking men, after another long pause. "Didn't I
hear that you had sent your two young men away over to Dorchester?"

"I did it on purpose," replied the other; "but do not you be afraid of
the look-out. It is trusted to one who won't be found wanting."

"It would be awkward if any of them were to pounce upon us," rejoined
the other.

"They might rue it," replied the man in the pilot's coat; and again
the conversation stopped.

About three minutes after, there was heard a loud halloo from the side
of the high-road, and one of the men started up; but the voice of him
they called Clive was heard saying, in a low tone, "Lie close, lie
close! I don't know the tongue; some drunken fool, perhaps, who has
lost his way; but we shall soon see." And at the same time, drawing
the lantern nearer to him, he put his hand into one of the large
pockets of his coat, and pulled out a pistol, which he looked at by
the dull light. The next instant the halloo was repeated, and the cock
of the pistol was heard to click.

"They are coming this way," said one of the sailors; "hadn't we better
dowse the glim, Master Clive?"

"No," replied the other, sternly; "would you have me endanger the boat
and our friends in her, to save myself from a little risk?"

As he spoke, steps were heard coming along the side of the hill, and
the moment after, a voice called aloud, "Is there a person of the name
of Clive there?"

The tone was that of a gentleman: there was no country accent, no
broad pronunciation; and Clive instantly started up, replying, "Yes;
what do you want with me?"

"I am sorry to tell you," said the voice they had heard, "that an
accident has happened to your daughter;" and at the same time a tall,
powerful, and handsome young man advanced towards the light. "It is
not, I trust, very serious," he added, in a kindly tone, as if anxious
to allay the apprehensions which his first words must have produced.
"I am afraid her right arm is broken, but she complains of no other
injury."

The old man put the pistol he had in his hand to the half-cock, and
replaced the weapon in his pocket, gazing in the stranger's face with
a look of apprehension and inquiry, but without making any reply for
some moments.

"Are you telling me the truth, sir?" he said at length.

"I am, indeed," replied the stranger; "I would not deceive you for the
world. A gentleman, with whom I have been travelling, and myself, got
out of the carriage to walk up the hill, and just at the top I saw
something lying near the road, and heard, as I thought, a groan. On
going nearer, I found a girl, partly covered with stones and dirt, and
apparently unable to extricate herself. She said she was not much
hurt, but could not shake off the mass that had fallen upon her, being
unable to use her right arm."

"It's that devil of a wall has fallen upon her," said one of the
sailors. "I knew it would come down some day in the first gale, for it
was all bulging out, and nothing but loose stones at the best."

"Exactly so," said the stranger; "such was the account of the accident
she herself gave; but it would seem that the wall brought part of the
bank with it, which probably prevented the stones from injuring her
more severely."

"Where is she?" demanded Clive, abruptly.

"She is in the carriage, just where the path joins the high road. We
were taking her home as fast as possible, when she asked me to come
down hither, and give you information of what had happened, for she
said it was necessary you should know."

"Ay! she is a dear good girl," said the man, in reply; "she always
thinks of those things; but I must think of her. I will go up with
you, sir. You stay here, lads, and keep a good look out till after the
tide has made; it will be no use staying any longer." And with a quick
step he led the way along the edge of the little basin in the hills,
taking a much shorter path than that which had been followed by his
visitor while seeking him. As he went, he asked a few questions, brief
and abrupt, but to the point; and after every answer, fell back into
thought again. It is probable that apprehension for his child occupied
his mind in those silent pauses, for the heart of affection is never
satisfied with any tale, however true, however circumstantial, when a
beloved object has been injured. We always ask ourselves, 'Is there
not something more?'

At length, as they mounted over the slope, the lighted lamps of a
carriage could be seen on the high road, at a little distance, and in
a moment after--for he now sprang forward eagerly--Clive was by the
side of the vehicle. Two servants, one of whom was dressed in the
costume of a courier, with a gold band round his cap, and a good deal
of black silk braid on his coat, were standing by the side of the
carriage, and one of them immediately threw open the door.

"I am not hurt, dearest father," said a sweet mellow voice, from
within; "that is to say, I am very little hurt. These two gentlemen
have been very kind to me, and would insist upon taking me home,
otherwise I would not have gone away, indeed."

"You would have done very wrong to stay, my child," answered Clive;
"and I thank the gentlemen much for their kindness. Can you walk now,
Helen?"

"She shall not walk a step to night, Mr. Clive," said a young
gentleman, who was sitting in the farther corner of the carriage; "she
is not fit for it; and we will not suffer such a thing. Nay more, I
think it would be very much better for you to get in and take her
home. I and my friend can follow on foot very well. It is but a short
distance, and she has been telling me the way. Here, Müller, open this
door." And before any one could stop him he was out of the carriage.

Clive made some opposition, but he suffered it to be overruled by the
persuasions of the two gentlemen, and in a minute or two was seated by
the side of his daughter, in the handsome travelling carriage which
had brought her thither, and was rolling away towards his own house,
the road to which the postillions seemed to know well. The two young
gentlemen sauntered slowly after on foot, conversing over the accident
which had diversified their journey.

"She seems to me to be exceedingly pretty," said the younger one, who
had been left with her in the carriage, while the other went to seek
Clive.

"Her language and manners, too," rejoined the other, "are very much
superior to her father's apparent station. What in heaven's name could
she be doing out there at this time of night?"

"Perhaps looking for her lover," replied the younger, with a laugh.

"No, no," said his companion; "her own words and her father's will not
admit of such a supposition. I have some doubt as to the trade of the
parties; but she certainly seems very little fitted to take part in
it, if it be what I suspect. Are you sure you know the way?"

"Oh! quite sure," answered the other; "we are to go on till we come to
a finger-post, and then to turn down the lane to the left. That will
lead us to the house, and she says there is no other there."

"The moon is getting up, I think, to guide us," said the elder of the
two young men; and then, after a moment's silence, during which his
thoughts wandered wide, he added, "I dare say we shall be able to get
some information at the house as to this good Master Clive's
avocations. He had a cocked pistol in his hand when I came up, and did
not seem at all well pleased at being disturbed."

In such sort of chat they walked on, the moon rising slowly, and
spreading her silvery light over the scene. Sometimes she was hidden
for a moment by the rushing clouds; but, with the peculiar power of
the soft planet, her beams seemed to absorb the vapours that sought to
obscure them; as calm truth, shining on and growing brighter as it
rises, devours the mists of prejudice and error, with which men's
passions and follies attempt to veil it.

In about a quarter of an hour they reached the finger-post which had
been mentioned, and there found one of the servants waiting to guide
them on the way. By him they were informed that the house was not more
than a quarter of a mile distant; and although one of the young
gentlemen said that it might have been as well to order the carriage
to come back to the high road as soon as it had set the poor girl and
her father down, the other replied that it would be much better to go
and see how she was, as there might be no surgeon in the
neighbourhood, and they might be able to render some assistance.

A minute or two after, the road led them to the brink of a little
dell, narrow, and well wooded, on the other side of which, rising high
above the trees, appeared a tall house, flat, and not very
picturesque, except from its accessories, although the moon was now
shining bright on the only side which the travellers saw. The road,
winding about to avoid the dell, carried them round to the other side
of the building, where they had to pass through a large farm-yard, the
dogs in which recorded in very loud tones their protest against the
admission of any strangers, although an old woman-servant, with a
light shaded by her apron, was waiting at the door to receive the
expected guests.

The place into which they were admitted, was evidently a large
farm-house of a very comfortable description. It might have been in
former times, indeed, the seat of some country gentleman of small
fortune, for the room on the left of the passage in which they
entered, was handsomely wainscoted with oak, each panel of which was
surrounded by a very respectable garland of flowers carved in the
woodwork. There, too, was a little sideboard, partly covered with
china and glass, rather heterogeneous in its parts, and which might
almost have furnished a history of glass ware from the time of the
middle ages downwards. There were tall Venice glasses, cut and gilt
like attar-of-rose bottles. There was the pleasant large claret glass,
so light that it added nothing to the weight of the wine within, with
a white spiral in the stalk, and sundry little stars ground upon the
delicate sides. There was the large goblet, somewhat yellowish in
tinge, rudely and bluntly cut and polished, looking almost like a cup
of rock crystal; and in the centre was an exceedingly beautiful large
chalice, richly gilt and ornamented, very delicate in form. But these
were mingled with things of more common use, some handsome enough in
their kind, but others of a sort usually to be seen in the basket of
an itinerant vender of crockery and decanters.

I might go on farther, describing many other curious little things
which that room contained, for there was a number of them; but I have
gone far enough to give some idea of the place, and have done so not
without thought; for, rightly read, I know few things that give a more
correct indication of the character of particular persons, if they
have any character at all, which is not always the case, than the
objects with which they surround themselves in their familiar
dwellings.

However, the two young gentlemen had hardly time to observe much,
before a door, different from that by which they had entered,
opened, and Clive himself came in. He had laid aside his heavy coat,
and now appeared in the dress of a wealthy farmer; and certainly a
powerful, well-looking, dignified man he was. There was no want of
ease in his manners, though they were not in the least familiar or
self-sufficient. There seemed, indeed, a consciousness of powers
mental and corporeal about him; a reliance upon his own nature, which
left not the slightest touch of embarrassment in his demeanour. He
never seemed to doubt that what he was doing and what he was saying
was right, though without thinking it at all extraordinary or
excellent.

"I am deeply obliged to you, gentlemen, both," he said; "and to you,
sir, in particular;" and he turned to the elder of the two. "My
daughter, thank God! is not much hurt; for though her arm is broken, I
trust we shall get that set speedily."

"I hope you have some surgeon here," said the younger gentleman; "for
whatever is to be done, had better be done at once."

"None nearer than the town, and that is seven miles," replied Clive;
"most unfortunately, too, I have sent both my men to some distance,
but I have ordered one of the girls to go and call up the herd, and
bid him bring the doctor directly."

"Why not send one of the post-boys?" said the young gentleman; "he is
already mounted, and two horses will carry us easily on, for we cannot
have more than two or three miles to go."

The proposal was adopted with many thanks, and the post-boy
accordingly sent on, after which the farmer, for so we must call him,
refrained, with a native sense of propriety, from loading the two
strangers with any further expressions of gratitude; but told them
that his daughter would be glad to see them before they went, to thank
them personally for the service they had rendered her.

"She is in the next room," he said, "and will not be satisfied unless
I bring you there."

There was no great resistance made, for the younger man had a strong
inclination to see whether, in the full light, she was as pretty as
she had seemed; and his companion felt that sort of interest in her
which a fine mind always takes in those on whom some benefit has been
conferred. The room in which she was, adjoined that which they had
first entered, and was fitted up very neatly, though plainly, as a
little sort of drawing-room. The girl herself was seated on a small
chintz-covered sofa, with her right arm supported by a cushion, and
one small foot resting on a stool. She was certainly exceedingly
beautiful, with large dark devoted-looking eyes, and dark eyebrows and
eyelashes, but with hair of a light brown, and an exceedingly fair
skin. A mixture of races seemed apparent in her; for the hair and
complexion of the fair Saxon were blended, yet not inharmoniously,
with the dark eyes of more southern lands. Her hand was small and
delicate, and her form fine, though slight; her dress, too, though
plain, was very good and ladylike; and everything that they saw was
calculated to raise greater surprise in the minds of her visitors that
she should be out alone, apparently watching for something upon the
high road, in a cold autumnal night.

Gracefully, and with much feeling, she thanked the two gentlemen, and
especially the elder, for extricating her from her dangerous and
painful situation, and for the kindness and tenderness which they had
afterwards shown her. The colour varied a good deal in her cheek as
she did so; and having received, in answer to their questions, an
assurance that she suffered very little--and that, from the fact of
the mass of earth which came down with the wall having diminished the
force of the stones, she was uninjured, except inasmuch as her arm was
broken, and her left foot somewhat bruised--they took their leave, and
departed to resume their journey.




CHAPTER III.


There was a small party assembled at a large country house not above
three miles, by the high road, from the spot where the last events
which I have recorded took place. It was a very extensive and very
old-fashioned brick building. Old-fashioned! It is a curious term. The
house was little more than a century old; a father might have seen it
built, and a son might have heard it called old-fashioned, for the
savour of earthly things passes away so rapidly, that what our parents
considered the perfection of skill and convenience, we hold to be but
a rude effort towards our own excellence. Yet they were very
convenient buildings, those old houses of the reigns of George the
First and George the Second; solid in their walls, large and yet
secure in their windows, high in their ceilings, broad and low in
their staircases, many in their rooms, and strong in their partitions.
There was little lath and plaster about them, little tinsel and bright
colouring; but there was a sober and a solid grandeur, a looking for
comfort rather than finery, of durability rather than cheapness, which
made them pleasant to live in, and makes them so even to the present
day.

Nothing that tended to comfort was wanting in that house; its solidity
seemed to set at defiance wind, and storm, and time; and its wide
grates laughed in the face of frost and cold, and bade them get forth,
for they could have no abiding there. Turkey carpets covered most of
the floors, even of those rooms which, by a law of the Draco-like
dictator, Fashion, are condemned to bear that sort of carpet called
Brussels, although the town which has given it name probably never in
the world's history produced a rood thereof. The Turks, when they made
them, must have marvelled much at what the Christian dogs could want
with such large carpets; for the one in the room where the party was
assembled--which was called the drawing-room, although it was lined
with books--could not have been less than forty feet in length, by
thirty in breadth, and yet there was a margin between it and the
book-cases. There were four windows on one side of the room, as one
looked towards which there was a door on the right hand leading into
the library, a door on the left leading into the dining-room, and
opposite the windows was another door, which opened into a large
vestibule, separated from a stone hall by a screen filled up with
glass.

In one of the two fire-places which the room contained was a large
blazing fire of wood, and near it was seated in an arm-chair, reading
a book, a very gentlemanly and well-dressed man, a good deal past the
middle age, with his feet, warming themselves at the blaze, crossed
and elevated upon a low stool. The other fire-place was not so well
attended to, but, nevertheless, it was glowing with a tolerable degree
of brightness, and near it were seated two young people, amusing
themselves, as best they might, during an evening which expectation
had rendered somewhat tedious. Sometimes they played at chess
together, and laughed and wrangled good-humouredly enough; sometimes
the one read and the other wrote; sometimes the one drew and the other
read; sometimes they talked in low tones, and laughed gaily as they
conversed. They were very nearly of an age, that is to say, there was
not quite two years' difference between them, but those two years had
been so allotted, as, considering their sexes, to make the difference
of five or six. The lady was the elder of the two. She was very nearly
approaching one-and-twenty, while the young man was a few months
beyond nineteen. They seemed fond of each other, but it was with a
fraternal sort of fondness, although they were not brother and sister;
and yet, for the young man at least, their near propinquity, and
constant communication, had it not been for other circumstances, might
have proved dangerous, for certainly a lovelier or more engaging
creature has seldom been seen than her with whom he then sat in the
unchecked familiarity of near relationship. She was the very opposite,
in personal appearance at least, of the girl we have lately spoken of.
Her hair could hardly be called black, for in certain lights there was
a gleam of rich brown in it, but her eyebrows and eyelashes were as
dark as night, and her complexion, though by no means brown in itself,
and tinged in the cheeks with the rose, was of that shade which
usually accompanies black hair; but her blue eyes were blue; deep
blue, it is true; so much so, that what with the jetty fringe that
surrounded them, and their own depth of hue, many a person thought
that they were black. Yet they were blue--very blue; of the colour of
an Italian sky when the sun has just gone down beyond the highest
hill, and left it full of depth and lustre. In height she was
certainly taller than the Venus de Medici; but yet she did not strike
one as tall, whether it was from the great symmetry of her figure or
some peculiarity in the proportions. But that which most attracted an
observer, and especially those who knew her well, was a sparkling
variety in the expression of her countenance, and a similar variety in
the grace of her movements. When she was reading, or thinking, or
writing, or singing, there was an earnestness, a deep tranquillity in
her aspect, which would have made one suppose her a being of a very
meditative and almost grave disposition; but in conversation, and on
all ordinary occasions, the look was quite different; gay, sparkling,
flashing with cheerfulness and spirit. When she sat still, the lines
of her form fell with such easy grace, and seemed so full of tranquil
beauty, that any one might have thought that the predominant character
was calm repose; but when she moved, especially under any immediate
excitement, the light elasticity of every motion changed her at once
into a different creature.

Her young companion was very different in every respect. Of a fair and
almost feminine complexion, his light hair waved gracefully over a
fine high brow, his blue eyes were soft and kindly-looking, and his
lips and nose, chiselled with the utmost delicacy, would have suited a
woman's face better than a man's. No beard or whiskers as yet gave
anything masculine to his countenance, and his slight figure and soft
satiny skin made him look still younger than he really was. To look
upon him, one would not have supposed that he had seen more than
sixteen years of age; and yet under that fair and delicate form there
were many strong and generous impulses, firm and resolute purposes,
and even a daring spirit, mingled strangely enough with a tenderness
and devotedness seldom found in the grown and experienced man, and a
degree of simplicity not at all approaching weakness, but depending
upon youth and inexperience.

"I care nothing about it, Edgar," said the lady, in a low tone, in
answer to something which the other had said; "he may come and go
whenever he pleases, without my ever giving the matter two thoughts.
You cannot tease me, cousin, for it is a matter of no interest to me,
I can assure you."

"I know better, little heretic," replied her young companion; "you
would fain have me believe, Eda, that you are as cold as ice, but I
know better. We shall see the fire kindled some day."

"Very likely," said the lady, with a smile; "but you know, Edgar, that
even that curious black stone, which seems to have been especially
given to England for the purpose of drying and warming our damp, cold
climate, smoking our ceilings and dirtying our hands, is as cold as
ice, too, till it is kindled."

"But there may be such things as concealed fires, fair cousin,"
retorted the young man, with a laugh.

The lady's cheek coloured a little, but she instantly changed the
defence into an attack, saying, almost in a whisper, and with a glance
to the gentleman reading by the fire, "I know there are, Edgar. Take
care, you bold boy, take care; for if you make war upon me, I shall
carry it into your own country."

The young man glanced hastily round him, in the same direction which
her eyes had before taken, and his cheek blushed like that of a young
girl at the first kiss of love. The lady saw that she had not missed
her mark, and maliciously sent another shaft after the first. "Where
were you this morning at eight o'clock?" she said, in the same subdued
tone; "and yesterday, and the morning before? Ah, Master Edgar! do not
jest with edged tools, or at least, learn how to use them better, or
you will cut your fingers, dear boy!"

"Hush, hush!" said the young man, in a low voice, and evidently a good
deal agitated; "let us make peace, Eda."

"You began hostilities," replied the lady, satisfied that she had got
that command of her young companion which ladies do not at all
dislike, and by that very means which they are fondest of
employing--the possession of a secret.

Almost at the same moment in which she spoke, the older gentleman by
the fire laid his book upon his knee, and pulled his watch out of his
pocket. "Very extraordinary!" he said, turning round his head; "it is
nearly ten o'clock; I am glad we dined. You see, Eda, there is no
counting upon the motions of young men."

"Especially, my dear uncle," replied the lady, "when combined with bad
roads, bad horses, and high hills. I will answer for it, when Lord
Hadley does come, you will have long tales of broken-down hacks,
together with abuse of lazy postillions and slow ostlers. But hark!
here he comes, or some carriage, at least, for carts are quiet at this
time of night."

"And don't dash along the avenue at such a rate," said her cousin
Edgar; "it is certainly the ship in sight, and we shall soon see the
freight."

The two gentlemen looked towards the door and listened, the lady
calmly pursued the task which occupied her, copying some music from a
sheet of embossed and pink-edged paper; and one of those little
intervals succeeded which take place between the arrival at the door
and the appearance in the drawing-room of an expected guest. It lasted
a minute, or a minute and a half, for there seemed to be some orders
to be given in the passage, and some questions to be asked; and then
the door of the room opened, and a servant, in a well-laced jacket,
announced "Lord Hadley," and "Mr. Dudley."

Had any eye watched the lady's countenance, they would certainly have
thought that some strong emotion was busy in her heart at that moment,
for her cheek first turned very pale, and then glowed warmly; but
it might also have been remarked that it was not at the first name
that the varying hue became apparent. The second name produced the
change, and, at the same time, the pen in her hand dropped upon the
music-paper, and blotted out the note she had just been tracing.

At the name of Mr. Dudley, too, an alteration of aspect took place in
her uncle, but it was momentary; his brow contracted, his face turned
pale, but immediately a placable look returned, and with a courteous
smile he advanced to meet the two gentlemen who entered. They were the
same whom we have seen upon the road, and in the house of Mr. Clive.
The second of the two, also, I must remark, not to give the reader the
trouble of turning back, was the student to whose room at Cambridge I
first introduced him.

Lord Hadley, a young, slight, fashionable man, with a good deal of
light hair always in high gloss and beautiful order, and a profusion
of whisker nicely curled, advanced at once towards the elder
gentleman, and shook him heartily by the hand, calling him Sir Arthur
Adelon. He then extended his hand to the young gentleman, whom he
seemed to know well also, giving as he did so, a glance, but not one
of recognition, towards the face of the lady. Sir Arthur instantly
touched his arm gently, and led him up to her, saying, "Eda, my dear,
let me introduce to you my friend, Lord Hadley--Lord Hadley, my niece,
Miss Brandon."

Lord Hadley bowed, and the lady curtsied gravely; but there was
evidently no emotion upon her part, at the introduction. In the mean
time, Mr. Dudley had remained in the most unpleasant occupation in the
world, that of doing nothing while other people are taken notice of. A
moment after, however, Sir Arthur Adelon turned towards him, and with
a courteous though somewhat formal how, said, "I am very happy to see
you, Mr. Dudley; allow me to introduce you to my son and my niece."

"I have already the pleasure of Miss Brandon's acquaintance," said the
tutor; and advancing towards her, he shook hands with her warmly. If
she really felt any strong emotions at that moment, she concealed them
well; and Mr. Dudley, turning again towards the baronet, finished with
graceful ease what he had been saying. "I was not at all aware, Sir
Arthur, that Miss Brandon was your niece, or it would have added
greatly to the pleasure I had in accompanying Lord Hadley, which
pleasure is more than perhaps you know, for it affords me the
opportunity of expressing my gratitude to an old friend and benefactor
of my poor father."

The gentleman to whom he spoke was evidently embarrassed from some
cause, though what that was did not fully appear. His face again
turned somewhat pale, and he hesitated in his reply. "Oh! really!" he
said; "then you are the son of Mr. Dudley of St. Austin's? Well, I am
very happy, indeed, to see you;" and he shook hands with him, but it
was not warmly, adding, as he did so, "but you are late, gentlemen. We
waited dinner for you an hour, and had even given up the hope of
seeing you to-night."

"I am really very sorry we detained you," replied Lord Hadley; "but we
have had two adventures, or rather, one impediment and one adventure.
First, at Dorchester, we found all the post-horses gone to some
review, or races, or archery-meeting, or one of those many tiresome
things, I don't well know what, which take post-horses away from the
places where they ought to be; and then, not far from this place, we
found a young lady who had contrived to get herself nearly crushed to
death under a wall, which had fallen, and carried a whole bank of
earth along with it."

Instant exclamations of surprise and interest followed; and the young
nobleman, who did not dislike attracting a little attention, proceeded
with his tale. After describing the spot where they discovered the
poor girl, he proceeded, in a frank, dashing way, to say, "She owes
her life, in truth, to my friend Dudley; for I, with my usual
thoughtlessness, was going to draw her from under the rubbish that had
fallen upon her as fast as I could; but he stopped me, showing me that
if I attempted it, I should bring down the whole of the rest of the
stones; and then he set to work, as if he had been bred an engineer,
and secured her against any fresh accident in the first place. She was
not so much hurt as might have been expected, though, I am sorry to
say, her poor little arm was broken."

On the old gentleman the tale had produced little impression; in Eda
Brandon it had excited feelings of compassion and interest; but it had
affected young Edgar Adelon very much more perceptibly. Luckily, no
one was looking at him; and he had not voice to attract any attention
towards himself by asking even a single question, though there was one
he would have given worlds to put.

"But what did you do with her?" demanded Eda Brandon, eagerly. "You
should have brought her on here, if the place was not far distant; we
could easily have sent for a surgeon, and we would have taken good
care of her."

"We knew neither the way nor the distance, Miss Brandon," said Mr.
Dudley; "but we did what was probably the best under any
circumstances. We took her to her father's house, and Lord Hadley
kindly sent on one of the post-boys to seek for some one to set her
arm."

"It is doubtless Helen Clive he speaks of," said a voice just behind
Mr. Dudley; so peculiar in its tones, so low, so distinct, so silvery,
that no one who heard it once could ever forget it.

Dudley turned quickly round, and beheld a middle-aged man, dressed in
a long, straight-cut black coat, with a black handkerchief round his
neck, and no shirt-collar apparent. His beard was closely shaved, and
looked blue through the pale skin. His eyes were fine, the brow large
and fully developed, but the mouth small and pinched, as if that
feature, which, together with the eyebrow, is more treacherous in its
expression of the passions than any other, was under strong and
habitual command. He stooped a little from the shoulders, either from
weakness or custom, and indeed he seemed by no means a strong man in
frame; but yet there was something firm and resolute in his aspect; a
look of conscious power, as if he had been seldom frustrated in life.
The gray eyebrow, too, hanging over the dark eye, and seeming to veil
its fire, gave an expression of inquiring perspicacity to the whole
face, which impressed one more with the idea of intelligence than of
sincerity. No one had seen or heard him enter, except, indeed, Sir
Arthur Adelon, whose face was towards the door, but yet he had been
standing close to the rest of the party for two or three minutes
before attention was attracted to himself by the words he uttered.

Lord Hadley turned, as well as his tutor, and looked at the new-comer
with some curiosity. "Yes," he replied, "her name was Clive, and I
think the old gentleman called her Helen."

"If her name was Clive," rejoined the man whom he had addressed, "it
was assuredly Helen Clive; for there is but one Mr. Clive in this
neighbourhood, and he has but one child."

"Really, sir, I am delighted to find you know so much about him," said
Lord Hadley; "for both he and his daughter, to tell you the truth,
have excited in me a good deal of interest and curiosity."

"Why?" was the stranger's brief question; and it was put in a somewhat
dry and unpleasant tone.

"Oh! simply because we found that she had been out upon the high road
at nine o'clock at night, sitting under an uncemented stone wall,
watching for something or somebody," was the first part of Lord
Hadley's reply, for he thought the stranger's tone rather impertinent.
"So much for my curiosity," he continued. "Then, as for my interest:
in the first place, my dear sir, she was exceedingly pretty; in the
next place, wonderfully ladylike, considering the circumstances in
which we found her; then, she had broken her arm, which, though
perhaps not as poetical as some other accidents, was enough to create
some sympathy, surely; and moreover, Dudley found her father sitting
upon the top of the cliff, looking over the sea, with a cocked pistol
in his hand."

"As to her beauty," replied the stranger, "with that I have nothing to
do. The interest you feel is undoubtedly worthy and well-deserved; and
as to the wonder, sir, you may depend upon it, that whatever Helen
Clive was doing, she had good reason for doing, and motives which, if
she chose to explain them, would quiet your surprise very speedily."

Mr. Dudley, who had taken no part in the conversation, smiled slightly
to hear a perfect stranger to Lord Hadley assume at once that tone of
calm superiority which he knew was likely to be most impressive with
his pupil.

The young nobleman was about to reply, however, when Sir Arthur Adelon
interposed, saying, "My lord, I should have introduced to you before
now our friend, the Reverend Mr. Filmer--Mr. Filmer, Lord Hadley." The
young lord bowed, and the other gentleman advanced a step, when, as he
passed, Mr. Dudley perceived that a small spot, about the size of a
crown piece, on the top of his head, was shaved, and recognising at
once the Roman Catholic priest, he gained with rapid combination some
insight into several things which had before been obscure.

The priest's manner softened. In a few moments he, with Lord Hadley
and their host, were in full conversation. With timid hesitation young
Edgar Adelon drew near and joined them; and Dudley, approaching the
table near which Miss Brandon was still standing, spoke a few words
with her in perhaps a lower tone than is quite customary on ordinary
occasions. They neither of them knew that they were speaking low; but
the emotions of the heart have immense mastery over the tones of the
voice; and though the words that they uttered were little more than
commonplace sentences of surprise and pleasure at their unexpected
meeting, of question and explanation of what had occurred to each
since they had last seen each other, they were certainly both a good
deal moved by the unspoken eloquence of the heart. In a short time,
just as Lord Hadley was about to retire to his room to put his dress
in order, supper was announced, and postponing his toilet, he offered
his arm to Miss Brandon, and led her into the adjacent room. Sir
Arthur Adelon and Mr. Dudley followed, and the priest lingered for a
moment or two behind, speaking to the baronet's son, and then entered
the supper-room with a quick step. He then blessed the meal with every
appearance of devotion; and Dudley's eye, which was marking much,
perceived that Sir Arthur and his son made the sign of the cross, but
that Eda Brandon forbore; and he was glad to see it.

The meal became very cheerful: as it went on, the first strangeness of
new arrival wore off with the two guests. Jest and gaiety succeeded to
more serious discourse, and topic after topic was brought forward and
cast away again with that easy lightness which gives a great charm to
conversation. The master of the house was somewhat stiff and stately,
it is true; but the three young men did not suffer his dignified air
to chill them. The priest was a man of great and very various
information, had seen, studied, and penetrated not only all the
ordinary aspects of society, but the hearts and spirits of thousands
of individuals. There was not a subject that he could not talk upon,
whether gay or grave; from the green-room of the theatre or
opera-house, to the cabinets of statesmen and the saloons of monarchs.
His conversation was graceful, easy, flowing, and becoming; and
although there was a point of sarcastic wit in it which gave it, in
the opinion of Dudley, almost too great a piquancy, yet when that
gentleman recollected what had been said, he could not find one word
that was unfitted to the character of a well-bred man and a priest. It
was all so quietly done too: the stinging gibe, the light and flashing
jest, that the young tutor sometimes thought the whole must have
received point and peculiar application from the manner; but yet he
could not recollect emphasis laid upon any word; and he carried away
from that table, when he retired to rest at night, much matter for
thought upon all that he had seen, and many a deep feeling re-awakened
in his heart, which he had hoped and trusted had been laid asleep by
the power of reason, and the struggle of a strong mind against a warm
and enthusiastic heart.




CHAPTER IV.


The wind had blown away the clouds which lay so heavy on the sky
the night before. The morning rose bright and sparkling, with a
brisk gale stirring the air, and a clear, fresh, frosty look over
the whole earth. At an early hour--for matutinal habits had become
inveterate--Mr. Dudley rose, and going to the window, gazed out upon a
scene of which he had been able to discover little at the dark hour
of his arrival.

I will not pause to describe all that he beheld, for the public taste
is as capricious in matters of composition as in regard to mere dress;
and the detailed description of scenery, the pictures with the pen,
which please much at one time, weary at another. It is a railroad age,
too: all the world is anxious to get on, and we hurry past
remorselessly all the finer traits of mind and character which were
objects of thought and study to our ancestors, just as the traveller,
in the long screaming, groaning, smoking train, is hurried past those
sweet and beautiful spots in which the contemplative man of former
days was accustomed to pause and ponder.

On one small portion of the landscape, however, I must dwell, for I
shall have to speak of it presently, and must recur to it more than
once hereafter. The house was situated in an extensive park; and a
long avenue of beech trees, not perfectly straight, but sweeping with
a graceful curve over the undulations of the ground, led down to the
park gates and to the lodge. At a short distance from that lodge, a
little thicket of wood joined on to the avenue, and ran along in
irregular masses till it reached the park wall: and these objects, the
avenue, the wavy green slopes of the park, the thicket beyond, and the
top of the park wall, were those upon which Mr. Dudley's eye first
rested. Beyond the limits of the park, again, in the same direction,
he caught a glimpse of a varied country, apparently tolerably fertile
and well-cultivated, close to the park, but growing rapidly wilder and
more rude, as it extended into some high and towering downs, which
Dudley conceived to be those he had traversed the night before.

As the reader well knows, some kinds of beech tree retain their leaves
longer than almost any other tree or shrub, except the tribe of
evergreens; and even through frost, and wind, and rain, they hang
yellow upon the wintry boughs, till the coming of the new green buds,
like ambitious children, forces their predecessors down to the earth.
The avenue was thus thickly covered, so that any one might have walked
there long unseen from most parts of the house or park. But when Lord
Hadley, on his way back to London from the Continent, had accepted a
kind, though not altogether disinterested invitation to Brandon--for
so the place was called--he had merely mentioned that his tutor was
with him, and to the tutor had been assigned a room considerably
higher in the house than the apartments of more lordly guests. Dudley
did not feel at all displeased that it should be so; and now as he
looked forth, he had a bird's-eye view, as it were, of the avenue, and
a fine prospect over the distant country. Thus he was well contented;
and as he had been informed that the family did not meet at breakfast
till half-past nine, and it was then little more than six, he
determined to dress himself at once, and roam for an hour or two
through the park, and perhaps extend his excursion somewhat beyond its
walls.

One of the first operations in a man's toilet--I say it for the
benefit of ladies, who cannot be supposed to know the mysteries
thereof--is to shave himself; and an exceedingly disagreeable
operation it is. I know not by what barbarous crotchet it has happened
that men have tried to render their faces effeminate, by taking off an
ornament and a distinction with which nature decorated them; but so it
is, that men every morning doom themselves to a quarter of an hour's
torture, for the express purpose of making their chins look smug,
and as unlike the grown man of God's creation as possible. Dudley's
beard was thick and black, and required a good deal of shaving. He
therefore opened a very handsome dressing-case--it was one which had
been a gift to him in his days of prosperity; and taking out a
small finely-polished mirror, he fastened it--for the sake of
more light than he could obtain at the looking-glass on the
toilet-table--against the left-hand window of the room; then with a
little Naples soap, brought by himself from the city of the syren, a
soft badger's-hair brush and cold water--for he did not choose to ring
the servants up at that early hour of the morning--he set to work upon
as handsome a face as probably had ever been seen. The brush and the
soap both being good, he produced a strong lather, notwithstanding the
cold water; and turning to put down the brush and take up the razor,
which he had laid down on a little table in the window, his eyes
naturally fell upon that part of the park grounds beneath him, where
the avenue terminated close to the house. As they did so, they rested
upon a human figure passing rapidly from the mansion to the shade of
the beech trees; and Dudley instantly recognised Edgar Adelon, the son
of his host. There was nothing very extraordinary in the sight; but
Dudley was a meditative man by habit, and while he reaped the sturdy
harvest of his chin, he went on thinking of Edgar Adelon, his
appearance, his character, his conversation; and then his mind turned
from the youth to another subject, near which it had been fluttering a
great deal both that morning and the night before, and settled upon
Eda Brandon. Whatever was the course of his meditations, it produced a
sigh, which is sometimes like a barrier across a dangerous road,
giving warning not to proceed any further in that direction.

He then gazed out of the window again, and following with his eyes the
course of the avenue, he once more caught sight of the young
gentleman, he had just seen, hurrying on as fast as he could go. He
had no gun with him, no dogs; and a slight degree of curiosity was
excited in the tutor's mind, which he would have laughed at had it
been anything but very slight. Shortly after, he lost sight of the
figure, which, as it seemed to him, entered the thicket on the right
hand of the avenue; and Dudley thought to himself, "Poor youth! he
seemed, last night, though brilliant and imaginative enough at times,
sadly absent, and even sad at others. He is gone, perhaps, to meditate
over his love; ay, he knows not how many more pangs may be in store
for him, or what may be the dark turn of fate near at hand. I was once
as prosperous and as fair-fortuned as himself, and now--"

He would not go on, for it was a part of his philosophy--and it was a
high-minded one--never to repine. As he passed to and fro, however, in
the room, he looked from time to time out of the window again; and
just as he was putting on his coat, he suddenly saw a figure emerge
from the thicket where it approached closest to the park wall, beheld
it climb easily over the boundary, as if by a stile or ladder, and
disappear. At that distance, he could not distinguish whether the
person he saw was Edgar Adelon or not; but he thought the whole
man[oe]uvre strange, and was meditating over it, with his face turned
to the window, when he heard a knock at his door, and saying, "Come
in," was visited by the Reverend Mr. Filmer.

The priest advanced with a calm, gentlemanly smile and quiet step,
saying, "I heard you moving in your room, Mr. Dudley, which adjoins
mine, and came in to wish you good morning, and to say that if I can
be of any service in pointing out to you the objects of interest in
this neighbourhood, of which there are several, I shall be most happy.
Also in my room I have a very good, though not very extensive,
collection of books, some of great rarity; and though I suppose we are
priests of different churches, you are too much a man of the world, I
am sure, to suffer that circumstance to cause any estrangement between
us."

"It could cause none, my dear sir," replied Dudley, "even if your
supposition were correct; but I am not an ecclesiastic, and I can
assure you I view your church with anything but feelings of bigotry;
and, indeed, regret much that the somewhat too strict definitions of
the Council of Trent have placed a barrier between the two churches
which cannot be overleaped."

"Strict definitions are very bad things," said the priest; "they are
even contrary to the order of nature. In it there are no harsh lines
of division, but every class of beings in existence, all objects, all
tones, glide gradually into each other, softened off, as if to show us
that there is no harshness in God's own works. It is man makes
divisions, and bars himself out from his fellow men."

Dudley did not dislike the illustration of his new acquaintance's
views; but he remarked that he did not touch upon any definite point,
but kept to generals; and having no inclination himself for religious
discussions, he thanked Mr. Filmer again for his kindness, and asked
him if there were any objects of particular interest within the limits
of a walk before breakfast.

"One which for me has much interest," replied the priest: "the ruins
of a priory, and of the church once attached to it, which lie just
beyond the park walls. I am ready to be your conductor this moment, if
you please."

Dudley expressed his willingness to go; Mr. Filmer got his hat, and in
a few minutes they issued forth into the fresh air.

Taking their way to the right, they left the avenue of trees upon the
other hand; and, by a well-worn path over the grassy slopes of the
park, they soon reached the wall, over which they passed by a stone
style, and then descended a few hundred yards into a little wooded
dell, with a very bright but narrow stream running through it. A
well-trimmed path, through the copse brought them, at the end of five
minutes more to an open space bosomed in the wood, where stood the
ruin. It was a fine specimen, though much decayed, of that style of
architecture which is called Norman; a number of round arches, and
deep, exquisitely chiselled mouldings, were still in good
preservation; and pausing from time to time to look and admire, Dudley
was led on by his companion to what had been the principal door of the
church, the tympanum over which was quite perfect. It was highly
enriched with rude figures; and the tutor gazed at it for some time in
silence, trying to make out what the different personages represented
could be about. Mr. Filmer suffered him, with a slight smile, to
contemplate it uninterruptedly for some time; but at length he said,
"It is a very curious piece of sculpture that. If you remark, on the
right-hand side there is represented a hunt, with the deer flying
before the hounds, and a number of armed men on horseback following.
Then in the next compartment you see dogs and men again, and a man
lying transfixed by a javelin."

"But the third is quite a different subject," said Dudley: "a woman,
seemingly singing and playing on a harp, with a number of cherubim
round her, and an angel holding a phial; and the fourth compartment is
different also, showing two principal figures embracing in the midst
of several others, apparently mere spectators."

"It is, nevertheless, all one story," said the priest; "and is, in
fact, the history of the foundation of this church and priory, though
connected with a curious legend attached to three families in this
neighbourhood, of each of which you know something. I will tell it to
you as we return; but first let us go round to the other side, where
there is a fragment of a very beautiful window."

Dudley was not content without exploring the whole of the ruin; but
when that was done they turned back towards the park again, and Mr.
Filmer began his tale:--

"Nearly where the existing house stands," he said, "stood formerly
Brandon Castle, the lord of which, it would appear, was a rash,
impetuous man, given much to those rude sports which, in the intervals
of war, were the chief occupations of our old nobility. In the
neighbourhood there was a family of knightly rank, of the name of
Clive, the head of which, in the wars of Stephen and Matilda, had
saved the life of the neighbouring baron, and became his dearest,
though comparatively humble friend. The lord of Brandon, though not
altogether what may be called an irreligious man, was notorious for
scoffing at the church and somewhat maltreating ecclesiastics. He had
conceived a passion for a lady named Eda Adelon, the heiress of some
large estates at the distance of about thirty miles from this place,
and had obtained a promise of her hand; but upon one occasion, he gave
her so great offence in regard to an abbey which she had aided
principally in founding, that she refused to ratify the engagement,
and entered into the sisterhood herself, telling him that the time
would come when he, too, would found monasteries, and perhaps have
recourse to her prayers. Five or six years passed afterwards, and the
baron himself, always irascible and vehement, became more so from the
disappointment he had undergone. The only person who seemed to have
any power over him, and that was the power which a gentle mind
sometimes exercises upon a violent one, was his companion, the young
Sir William Clive. Hunting was, as I have said, his favourite
amusement; and on one occasion he had pursued a stag for miles through
the country, always baffled by the swiftness and cunning of the beast.
He had thrown a number of javelins at it, always believing he was sure
of his mark; but still the beast reappeared unwounded, till at length
it took its way down the very glen where Brandon Priory stands, and
then entered the thicket, just as the baron was close upon its track.
Fearing to lose it again, he threw another spear with angry vehemence,
exclaiming, with a fearful oath, 'I will kill something this time!' A
faint cry immediately followed, and the next instant Sir William Clive
staggered forth from the wood, transfixed by his friend's javelin, and
fell, to all appearance dying, at the feet of the baron's horse. You
have now the explanation of the first two compartments; I will proceed
to give you that of the two others. The great lord was half frantic at
the deed that he had done; the wounded man was taken up and carried to
the castle; skilful leeches were sent for, but employed their art in
vain; the young knight lay speechless, senseless, with no sign of life
but an occasional deep-drawn breath and a slight fluttering of the
heart. At length one of the chirurgeons, who was an ecclesiastic,
ventured to say, 'I know no one who can save him, if it be not the
Abbess Eda.' Now, Eda Adelon had by this time acquired the reputation
of the highest sanctity, and she was even reported to have worked
miracles in the cure of the sick and the infirm. Filled with anguish
for his friend, and remorse for what he had done, the baron instantly
mounted his horse, and rode, without drawing a rein, to the abbey,
where he was admitted to the presence of the abbess, and casting
himself upon his knees before her, told the tale of his misadventure.
'Kneel to God, and not to me, Lord Brandon,' said the abbess; 'humble
your heart, and pray to the Almighty. Perchance he will have
compassion on you.'

"'Pray for me,' said the baron; 'and if your prayers are successful,
Eda, I vow by Our Lady and all the saints, to lead a new and altered
life for the future, and to found a priory where my poor friend fell,
and there twelve holy men shall day and night say masses in
commemoration of the mercy shown to me.'

"'I will pray for you,' replied the abbess; 'wait here awhile;
perchance I may return with good tidings.'

"While left alone the baron heard a strain of the most beautiful and
solemn music, and the exquisite voice of the Abbess Eda singing an
anthem; and at the end of about an hour she returned to him, carrying
a phial of precious medicine, which she directed him to give to his
friend as soon as he reached his castle. The legend goes that the
phial had been brought down to her by an angel, in answer to her
prayers; but certain it is, the moment the medicine was administered
to the wounded man his recovery commenced, and he was soon quite
restored to health. The baron did not forget his vow, but built the
priory where you have seen the ruins; and in commemoration of the
event caused the tympanum you have examined to be chiselled by a
skilful mason. We find, moreover, that he bestowed the hand of his
only sister upon the young Sir William Clive; and the malicious folks
of the day did not scruple to affirm that the young lady had been
walking in the wood with the gallant knight at the very moment when he
received the wound."

The priest ended with a quiet smile, and Dudley replied with that sort
of interest which an imaginative man always takes in a legend of this
kind, "I do not wonder that where there are such tales connected with
a family, it clings to the old faith with which they are bound up, in
spite of all the changes that go on around."

"Alas! in this instance, my dear sir," replied the priest, "such has
not been the case. The Adelons and the Clives, it is true, have
remained attached to the church; the Brandons have long abandoned her.
Even this fair girl, Sir Arthur's niece, has been brought up in your
religion;" he paused a moment, and then added, with a sigh, "and
continues in it."

Dudley could not say that he was sorry to hear it; but he was spared
the necessity of making any reply by the approach of another person,
in whom he instantly recognised the father of the girl whom he had
aided to rescue from extreme peril the evening before. "Ah! Mr.
Clive," he said, as the other drew near, "I am very happy to see you;
I should have come down during the morning to inquire after your
daughter. I trust that she has not suffered much, and that you got a
surgeon speedily."

"In about two hours, my lord," said Clive; "country doctors are not
always readily to be found; but the delay did no harm; the broken arm
was set easily enough, and my poor girl is none the worse for what has
happened, except inasmuch as she will have to go one-handed about the
world for the next month or so."

"You have mistaken me for the gentleman who was with me, Mr. Clive,"
said Dudley; "he was Lord Hadley; I am a very humble individual,
having neither rank nor honours."

"The nobility of the heart, sir, and the honours which are given
unasked to a high mind," replied Clive. "I know not why, but both my
daughter and myself fancied that you were the nobleman, and the other
was a friend."

"The very reverse," answered Dudley; "he is the nobleman, I am merely
his tutor."

The old man mused for a minute or two very profoundly, and said at
length, "Well, I suppose it is all just and right in the sight of the
great Distributor of all gifts and honours; but I beg your pardon,
sir, for giving you a title that is not your due, which I know is a
greater offence when it is too high than when it is too low. Against
the one offence man is sheltered by his pride; to the other he is laid
open by his vanity. Mr. Filmer, I should like to speak a word with
you, if possible."

"Certainly," said the priest, "certainly; if you will walk on, Mr.
Dudley, for a very short way, I will talk to Mr. Clive, and overtake
you immediately. I beg pardon for our scanty expedition; after
breakfast, or in the evening, we will take a longer ramble."

Dudley bowed and walked on, with very little expectation, to say the
truth, of being rejoined by the priest before he reached the house;
but he miscalculated, for five minutes had hardly passed when, with
his peculiarly quiet step, rapid but silent, Mr. Filmer rejoined him.
Dudley had clearly comprehended from the first that Mr. Filmer was a
man likely to be deeply acquainted with the affairs of all the Roman
Catholic families in the neighbourhood. There is one great
inconvenience attending the profession of the Roman Catholic faith, in
a country where the great bulk of the population is opposed to it. The
nearest priest must be the depositary of the secrets of all; and it
must depend upon the honesty with which they are kept, whether the
private affairs of every family are, or are not, bruited about through
the whole adjacent country. In lands where the population is
principally papistical, such is not the case; for the numbers of the
priesthood divide the secrets of the population, and it rarely happens
that one man has enough to make it worth his while to talk of the
concerns of the families with which he is connected, even were not his
lips closed upon the weightier matters by the injunctions of the
church. Dudley was somewhat curious to have an explanation of the
circumstances in which he had found both Clive and his daughter on the
preceding evening; but a feeling of delicacy made him forbear from
putting any question to Mr. Filmer upon the subject, and as they
walked on to the house he merely remarked, "I suppose this gentleman
whom we have lately seen is a descendant of the person mentioned in
your legend?"

"From father to son direct," replied the priest. "It is but little
known how much noble blood there is to be found amongst what is called
the yeomanry of England. If the old Norman race were still considered
worthy of respect, many a proud peer would stand unbonneted before the
farmer. But Mr. Clive cultivates his own land, as was done in days of
yore."

"I should almost have imagined," said Dudley, with a laugh, "from the
spot and manner in which I found him last night, that he added other
occupations, probably, if less noble, not less ancient."

Mr. Filmer turned and gazed at him with a look of some surprise, but
he made no reply; and as they were by this time near the house the
conversation dropped entirely.




CHAPTER V.


With a quick step Edgar Adelon pursued his way along the avenue,
through the thicket, by the paths which he knew well, and over the
wall of the park by the stones built into it to form a stile; but it
was the eager beating of his heart which made his breath come fast and
thick, and not the rapidity with which his young limbs moved. He knew
not that he was observed by any one; and with that intensity of
feeling which few are capable of, and which, perhaps, few for their
own happiness should desire, his whole mind and thoughts were filled
with one subject, so that he could give no heed to anything that
passed around him. He walked on down a very narrow, shady lane, which
led by a much shorter way than had been taken by the carriage of Lord
Hadley the night before, to the house of Mr. Clive, and was entering a
meadow upon the side of the hill, without observing that any one was
near, when suddenly a voice called him by name, and turning he beheld
the tall old man himself, and instantly advanced towards him and
grasped his hand eagerly.

"How is Helen?" he said--"how is Miss Clive? Lord Hadley and Mr.
Dudley told us of the accident last night, and I have been in a fever
to hear more of her ever since. They said she was not much hurt; I
hope it is so, but I must go down and see her."

The old man had gazed at him while he spoke with a fixed, steadfast
look, full of interest, but in some degree sad. "She is not much hurt,
Edgar," he answered; "her arm is broken, but that will soon be well.
Otherwise she is uninjured. But, my dear boy, what are you doing? This
cannot go on. You may go down to-day and see her, for you would not
pain her, or injure her, I know; but you must tell your father that
you have been. That I insist upon, or I do not let you go."

"I will, I will!" answered Edgar Adelon; "surely that will satisfy
you. Injure her! I would not for the world; no, not for anything on
earth."

"Well, if your father knows it, Edgar, I have nought to say," rejoined
the old man; "and I will trust to your word that you do tell him. That
which he does with his eyes open is his fault, not ours. All I say is,
I will have no deceit."

"You will hear from himself that I have told him," replied the young
man, with a glowing cheek; "but mark me, Clive, I do not always say
when I go to your house any more than when I go to other places. If
the occasion requires it I speak; but if not, I am silent."

Clive again looked at him steadfastly, as if he were about to add
something more in a grave tone; but then suddenly laying his hand upon
his shoulder he gave him a friendly shake, saying, "Well, boy, well!"
and turned away and left him.

Edgar Adelon pursued his course with a well-pleased smile and a light
step. His conversation with Clive was a relief to him; it was
something which he had long seen must come, which he had dreaded, and
it was now over. Five minutes brought him in sight of the house
towards which his steps were bent; and he paused for a moment, with
joyful beating of the heart, to look at it, as it stood rising out of
its trees upon the opposite side of the dell, as if it were perched
upon the top of a high cliff overhanging the valley; though, in truth,
beneath the covering of the wood was stretched a soft and easy
descent, with manifold walks and paths leading to the margin of the
little stream.

It is no unpleasant thing to pause and gaze into the sparkling wine of
the cup of joy before we quaff it: and such was the act of Edgar
Adelon at that moment, although his whole heart was full of those
tremulous emotions which are only combined with the intense and
thirsty expectation of youth. Then with a wild bound he darted down
the road, crossed the little bridge, and ran up the opposite slope. He
entered the yard of the building at once, and no dogs barked at him. A
small terrier came and wagged his tail, and the great mastiff crept
slowly out of his kennel, and stretched himself in the morning
sunshine. Edgar Adelon must have been often there before. He walked
into the house, too, without ceremony, and his question to the first
woman-servant he met was, "Where is Helen?" but he corrected it
instantly into "Where is Miss Clive?"

The woman smiled archly, and told him where she was; and a moment
after, Edgar was seated beside her on a sofa in the little
drawing-room which I have described. I do not know that it would be
altogether fair or just to detail all that passed between them; but
certainly Edgar's arm stole round the beautiful girl's waist, and he
gazed into her dark eyes and saw the light of love in them. He made
her tell him all that happened, that is to say, all that she chose to
tell; for she refused to say how or why she was out watching upon the
road at a late hour of the evening. He was of a trustful heart,
however; and when she first answered, with a gay look, "I went to meet
a lover, to be sure, Edgar," he only laughed and kissed her cheek,
saying, "You cannot make me jealous, Helen."

"That is, I suppose, because you do not love me sufficiently," said
Helen Clive.

"No, love," he replied, "it is because I esteem you too much." And
then he went on to make her tell him when the surgeon had arrived, and
whether the setting of her arm had pained her much, and whether she
was quite, quite sure that she was not otherwise hurt.

"My foot a little," replied his fair companion; "it is somewhat
swelled; don't you see, Edgar?" And he knelt down to look, and kissed
it with as much devotion as ever a pilgrim of his own faith kissed the
slipper of the pope.

Then came the account of her deliverance from the perilous situation
in which she had been found. "Do you know," she said, "if I had not
been a great deal frightened and a little hurt, I could have laughed
as I lay; for it was more ridiculous than anything else, to feel one's
self half buried in that way, and not able to move in the least.
Luckily it was the earth fell upon me first, and then the stones upon
that, so that I could only move my arms; and when I tried to do that,
it instantly set some of the stones rolling again, by which my poor
arm was broken; so then I lay quite still, thinking some one must come
by, sooner or later, till I heard a carriage coming up the hill, and
saw by the light of the lamps two gentlemen walking fast before it. I
called to them as loud as I could, and they both ran up. The one was
kind enough, and was going to pull me out at once; but if he had done
so, most likely he and I and his companion would have been all killed,
or very much hurt. The other, however, stopped him, and kindly and
wisely and gently, secured all the fragments of the wall that were
still hanging over, so that he could get me out without danger; and
then he lifted off the stones one by one, and he, and the servants,
and the other gentleman removed the weight of the earth and lifted me
up; and all the time he spoke so kindly to me, and comforted and
cheered me, so that I shall always feel grateful to him till the last
day of my life."

"And so shall I, my sweet Helen," said Edgar Adelon, eagerly; "but
which was it, the dark one or the fair one?"

"Oh! the dark one," replied Helen Clive; "the tallest of the two. I
think the post-boy told my father that it was Lord Hadley."

"No, no," said her lover; "the fair one is Lord Hadley, the dark one
is Mr. Dudley, his tutor, and I am glad of it; first, because I like
him best, and secondly, because I am more likely with him to have an
opportunity of showing my gratitude for what he has done for you, dear
girl. If ever I have, I shall not forget it, Helen."

"You must not, and you will not, I am sure, Edgar," answered Helen
Clive. "I think that men's characters and nature are often shown more
by the manner in which they do a thing, than by the act itself; and
though I felt grateful enough for deliverance, yet I will confess I
felt more grateful still for the kind and gentle way in which he spoke
to me, asked if I were much hurt, told me not to be frightened, that
they would soon release me; and still, while he used the very best
means of extricating me, kept talking cheerfully to me all the time."

"God bless him!" said Edgar Adelon; "I shall love that man, I am
sure."

"Then, too," continued Helen, "when they had put me in the carriage,
and we had gone about half a mile over the down, I asked them to stop
and let one of their servants go and tell my father what had happened
to me; and the young light-haired one called to a servant he named
'Müller,' to go; but the other said, 'No, no! I will go myself. The
man might only frighten your father;' and he opened the carriage door
and jumped out, as if he had a real pleasure in doing all he could do
for a poor girl whom he had never seen before, and a man whom he had
never seen at all."

"That is the true spirit of a gentleman," said Edgar; "a better
coronet, my Helen, than gilded leaves and crimson velvet can make. But
now tell me more about yourself. When does the surgeon say your arm
will be well, and when can you come out again to take a morning's
walk?"

"I can walk quite well," answered Helen Clive; "my foot and ancle are
a little bruised, but that is all. As for my arm, it may be six weeks,
or two months, Mr. Sukely says, before I can use it; so no more
playing on the guitar, Edgar, for a long time."

"Well, we must have patience," answered Edgar Adelon. "It is pleasant,
my Helen, to hear you make sweet music, as the poet calls it, and
warble like a bird in spring; but yet I do not know that the best
harmony to my ear is not to hear the spoken words of that dear tongue
in the tones of love and confidence. But come, we will have our
morning walk; the brightest hour of all my day is that between seven
and eight."

"I will get my bonnet on and come," answered Helen; and she left the
room for the purpose she mentioned.

Edgar, in the meanwhile left alone, gazed for a moment or two at the
pages of the book she had been reading, and was writing a lover's
comment in the margin, when one of the doors of the room opened, and
he started up, thinking that Helen had returned prepared. He was
surprised, however, to see a tall, powerful, broad-shouldered man of
about forty, well dressed, and having the appearance of a gentleman.
His face, however, though intelligent, was not altogether pleasant in
expression; the head was round, the forehead square-cut and massive,
the jaw-bone large and angular, the eyes gray, but sharp and flashing,
the eyebrows bushy and overhanging, and the grayish red hair cut
short, and standing stiff and bristly, while enormous whiskers of the
same hue almost concealed each cheek. The young gentleman, it is true,
got but an imperfect view of him, for the intruder withdrew as soon as
he saw that there was any one in the room, and closed the door. Edgar
felt somewhat surprised and curious, for he had never before seen any
one in Mr. Clive's house at that hour of the morning but himself, his
servants and labouring men, and Helen; and with the rapid divination
of thought, he at once connected the appearance of this stranger with
the events of the night before. He had not much time for reflection
before Helen Clive returned; but then he instantly told her what had
occurred, and inquired who the visitor was.

"Ask no questions, Edgar," replied Helen, "or put them to my father;
but at all events, do not mention to any one else, I beseech you, that
you have seen such a person here."

Edgar mused, and walked out with her, perhaps in a more meditative
mood than he had ever experienced in the society of Helen Clive
before. It soon passed away, however; and they wandered on, side by
side as usual, in conversation too deeply interesting to them to be
very interesting to a reader of a work like this. But all bright
things will come to an end, and that sweet hour, which perhaps they
too often indulged in, terminated all too soon; and the impassioned
boy took his way back to Brandon full of wild and glittering visions
of love and happiness. He had somewhat outstayed his time; and when he
reached the house, he found the whole party sitting down to breakfast.

"Why, why, where have you been, Edgar?" asked Sir Arthur; "you have
been an early wanderer."

"Oh! I often am," answered Edgar; but remembering his promise to Mr.
Clive, he added, "I have been down to Knight's-hyde Grange, to see
poor Helen Clive after the accident of last night."

Sir Arthur Adelon seemed neither surprised nor displeased. "How is
she?" he inquired. "Not much hurt, I hope?"

"Not much," replied Edgar, encouraged by his father's manner; "the
dear girl's arm is broken, and her foot a little bruised, but that is
all." His cheek flushed a little as he ended, for he saw not only the
deep blue eyes of his beautiful cousin fixed upon him, but those of
the priest also.

Sir Arthur took no notice, however, but merely said, "Did you see Mr.
Clive, also?"

"Yes, I met him," replied the young man; "he was coming up this way."

"I must see him to-day, myself," said the baronet; "and I suppose, in
gallantry, I ought to go down and ask after your fair playfellow, too,
Edgar;" and turning towards Lord Hadley, he added, "they were children
together, and many a wild race have they had in the park, when my poor
brother-in-law Brandon was alive. Clive and he were related; for there
is no better blood in the country than that which flows in the veins
of this same farmer-looking man whom you met last night."

"Let us all go down and visit them, my dear uncle," said Eda Brandon.
"I have not seen Helen for a long time."

The party was agreed upon, and the breakfast proceeded; but to one at
least there present, the cheerful morning meal seemed not a pleasant
one. Mr. Dudley ate little, and said less; and yet there seemed to be
no great cause for the sort of gloom that hung upon him. Everybody
treated him with the utmost courtesy and kindness; he was seated next
to Sir Arthur Adelon, between him and Mr. Filmer. Lord Hadley, in big
good-humoured way, never seemed to look upon him as the tutor, but
called him on more than one occasion, 'My friend Dudley;' and there
was a warmth, mingled with reverence, in the manner of young Edgar
Adelon, when he spoke to him, which must have been gratifying.

Could the cause of the sort of melancholy which affected him, be the
fact that Lord Hadley was seated next to Eda Brandon, and that his
eyes and his manner told he thought her very beautiful?

However that might be, as soon as breakfast was over, and the party
rose, Dudley retired at once to his room, and when he had closed the
door, he stood for a moment with his hands clasped together, gazing on
the floor. "This is worse than vain," he said at length; "this is
folly; this is madness. Would to God I had not come hither; but I must
crush it out, and suffer myself to be no longer the victim of
visionary hopes, which have no foundation to rest upon, and feelings
which can never be gratified, and which it is madness to indulge." He
sat himself down to read, but his mind had lost its usual power, and
he could not bend his thoughts to the task. Perhaps three quarters of
an hour had passed, when some one knocked at his door, and Edgar
Adelon came in.

"They are all ready to go, Mr. Dudley," he said. "Will you not come
with us?"

"I think not," replied Dudley; "I am not in a very cheerful mood. This
day is an anniversary of great misfortunes, Mr. Adelon, and it is not
fair to cloud other people's cheerfulness with my grave face."

"Oh! cast away sad thoughts," said Edgar; "if they are of the past,
they are but shadows; if they are of the future, they are morning
clouds."

"Clouds that may be full of storms," replied Dudley, sadly.

"Who can tell?" cried the young man, enthusiastically; "and if they
be, how often do the rain-drops of adversity water the field, and
advance the harvest of great future success. I have read it, I have
heard of it, I am sure that it is true. Come, Mr. Dudley, come; for
the man who gives himself up to sorrow makes a league with a fiend
when there is an angel waiting for him. Hope is energy, energy is
life, life is happiness if it is rightly used. We wound the bosom of
the earth to produce fruits and flowers, and heaven sometimes furrows
the heart with griefs to produce a rich crop of joys hereafter."

Dudley grasped his hand warmly. "Thanks, thanks, my young friend," he
said; "I will come. I certainly did not think to receive such bright
lessons, and such wise ones, from one so young."

"The philosophy of youth," answered Edgar, with a laugh, "is, I
believe, the best, for it is of God's implanting. It is an instinct to
be happy; and where is the reason that is equal to instinct?"

"Nowhere," answered Dudley, taking his hat, with a smile; "and I will
follow mine."




CHAPTER VI.


I will beg leave with the reader to precede the party which was just
setting out from Brandon, and to give one more scene at the house of
Mr. Clive, which took place shortly before their arrival.

About a quarter of an hour after Edgar had turned his steps homeward,
Mr. Clive entered the room where Helen was sitting, and placed himself
in a chair opposite to her. But upon Helen's part there was nothing
like a bashful consciousness; she had been accustomed to her lover's
coming and going for years; their mutual affection had sprung up so
gradually, or rather had developed itself so easily, that she could
hardly mark the time when they had not loved; there had been none of
those sudden changes which startle timid passion, and neither her
father nor Sir Arthur Adelon had ever shown any of that apprehension,
in regard to their frequent meeting, which might have created anxiety,
if not fear, in her own breast. She therefore looked up frankly in her
father's face, and said, "Edgar has been here, my dear father, and
unfortunately Mr. Norries opened the door and came in while he was in
the room; but I am sure there is no cause for apprehension, for I
begged Edgar not to speak of it to any one, and he gave me his word
that he would not."

Mr. Clive cast down his eyes, and thought for several minutes without
reply. But he then murmured some words, more to himself than to his
daughter, saying:--"That is bad; that is unfortunate: not that I doubt
Edgar, my Helen; but I must speak with Norries about it; for he is
somewhat rash, and he may show himself to others not so much to be
trusted. That I do trust Edgar you may well judge, my dear child,
otherwise he would not be so often here."

He spoke, gazing at his daughter with a look of some anxiety, and with
the white eyebrows drawn far over the eyes. "I know not that I am
right, my Helen," he added; "I almost begin to fear not. I feel I
should only be doing right if I were to bid this youth make his visits
fewer and shorter; and yet I would not pain him for a great deal, for
he is kind, and good, and honest; but it must come to that in the end,
Helen."

"Oh! no, my father, no," cried Helen Clive, imploringly. "Why should
you do that?"

"Listen to me, Helen," said her father; "you have not thought of these
things fully. He loves you, Helen."

"I know it," cried Helen Clive, with the ingenuous blood mounting into
her cheek; "I know it, and I love him; but why should that prevent him
from coming? Why should that deprive us of the very happiness which
such love gives?"

"Because it cannot be happy, my Helen," answered her father; "because
he is a gentleman of high degree, and you the daughter of no better
than a yeoman."

"My father," said Helen, rising, and laying the hand that was
uninjured on her father's arm, "have I not heard you say that the
blood of the yeoman Clive is as pure as that of the noble house of
Adelon, and perhaps of older strain? Is not the land you cultivate
your own, as much or more than his that he farms to others? There is
not that difference between us that should be reasonably any bar; but
even suppose it were so, what could you seek by separating us?"

"Your own happiness, my child," answered Clive, gravely.

"By making us both miserable some years, months, or weeks, before we
otherwise might be so," rejoined Helen, eagerly; "that is all that can
be done now. We love as much as we can love, and so long as we are
doing nought that is wrong, violating no duty to you, nor to his
father, surely we may enjoy the little portion of happiness that is
sure, and leave to the future and God's good will the rest."

She spoke eagerly, and with her colour heightened, her eye full of
light, and her beautiful lips quivering in their vehemence; and Clive
could not help feeling a portion of a father's pride rise up and take
part with her. He could not but say to himself, as he gazed at her in
her beauty, "She is worthy to be the bride of the greatest lord in all
the land."--"Well, Helen, well," he said, using an expression which
was habitual to him, "I must trust you both; but remember, my child,
in making over to you the care of your own happiness, I put mine under
your guardianship also, for mine is wrapped up in yours. But hark!
there is Norries pacing to and fro above. I must go and speak with
him. That wild spirit will not brook its den much longer." And walking
to the door, he mounted the stairs to the room which was just over
that where he had been sitting.

"Ah! you are come back at last, Clive," said the strong, hard-featured
man whom I have before described. "Well, what have you heard? Were all
those movements that alarmed you so much last night but mere idle
rumour?"

"No," answered Clive; "but I find you were not the object. A party of
smugglers was taken farther down the coast, and the intimation which
the officer so mysteriously hinted to me they had received, referred
to that affair."

"To be sure," replied his companion; "they all think me in the United
States. No one but yourself has ever known that I was in France the
while."

"I can't help thinking, my good friend," replied Clive, "that it might
have been better for you to have stayed there. You know you are in
jeopardy here, and may be recognised at any moment."

"Well, well, Clive!" answered his companion, "I will not jeopardise
you long; it is my intention to go on this very night, so do not be
alarmed. I thank you much for what you have done, which is as much or
more than I could expect, and am only sorry that poor Helen has been
injured in my cause."

Clive looked at him steadfastly for a moment or two, with his usual
calm, steady, grave expression of countenance, and then replied, with
a faint smile, "It is curious, Norries, how, whenever men are blamed
by their best friends for a foolish action when it is committed, or
warned against a rash action which they are determined to commit, they
always affect to believe that there is some personal feeling actuating
their counsellor, and persuade themselves that his advice is not good,
not by trying it on the principles of reason, but by their own
prejudices. I have no personal fears in the matter; I anticipate no
danger to myself or to my family; neither should you think so. Last
night I was ready to have shed my blood to insure your safety, which I
certainly should not have been likely to do if I were a man full of
the cold calculations you suppose----"

"Well, well, well, Clive!" said Norries, interrupting him, "I was
wrong, I was wrong: think of it no more; but one meets so much cold
calculation in this life, that one's heart gets chilled to one's best
friends. My coming might, indeed, as you say, be what the world would
call rash; but every attempt must be estimated by its object, and till
you know mine, do not judge me hastily. Where I was wrong, was in not
giving you sufficient intimation of my intention, that you might have
prepared and let me know when I could land without risk; but the man I
sent over to you was delayed one whole day for a passage, and that day
made a great difference."

"It did," answered Clive; "for I had barely time to send my own two
men away to a distance, and get others, in whom I could better trust,
to help me. I had no means either of giving you warning that there was
a great movement at Barhampton, and that the officers were evidently
on the look-out for some one on the coast. You only said that you
would land in the cove between nine and ten, and that I must show a
light due east of the cove mouth to guide you, as there was no moon. I
had nothing for it, therefore, but to make ready against attack, in
order that you might get back to the boat if you were the person these
men were looking for. But now, Norries, I am very anxious to hear what
is your object, for it should be a great one to induce you to
undertake such a risk."

"It is a great one," answered Norries, with his gray eyes flashing
under his contracted brow: "no less than the salvation of my country,
Clive. In that last affair, the rash fools of the manufacturing
districts hurried on, against all persuasion, before matters were half
ripe, with the light spirit of the old Gauls: firm in the onset,
daunted by the first cheek, and tame and crouching in defeat. Had they
behaved like men, I would have remained with them to the last, to
perish or to suffer; but there was no shame in abandoning men who
abandoned their own cause at the very first frown of fortune. Now
there is a brighter prospect before me and before England. There are
sterner, calmer, more determined spirits, ready and willing to dig a
mine beneath the gaudy fabric of corruption and tyranny, which has
been built up by knavish statesmen in this land, and to spring the
mine when it is dug. The boasted constitution of England, which
protects and nurses a race of privileged tyrants, and refuses
justice--ay, and almost food--to the great mass of the people, is like
one of the feudal castles of the old barons of the land, built high
and strong, to protect them in their aggressions upon their
neighbours, and in their despotic rule over their serfs. But there
have been times in this and other lands when the serfs, driven to
madness by unendurable tyranny, have, with the mattock and the axe of
their daily toil, dug beneath the walls of the stronghold, and cast it
in ruins to the ground. So will we, Clive; so will we!"

Clive crossed his arms upon his chest, and gazed at him with a
thoughtful and a melancholy look; and when he had done he shook his
head sadly, as if his mind could take no part in the enthusiastic
expectations of his companion.

"Why do you shake your head, Clive?" demanded Norries, impatiently.

"Because I have lived long enough, my good friend," replied Clive, "to
see some hundreds of these schemes devised, perfected, executed, and
every one has brought ruin upon the authors, and worked no
amelioration in the institutions of the land."

"Simply because men are tame under injuries; simply because they
submit to injustice; simply because, out of every ten men in the land,
there is not one who has a just notion of the dignity of man's nature,
or a just appreciation of man's rights," was the eager reply of
Norries. "But their eyes have been opened, Clive; the burden is
becoming intolerable; the very efforts that have been made, and the
struggles that have been frustrated, have taught our fellow countrymen
that there is something to struggle for, some great object for
endeavour. They have asked themselves, what? and we have taught them.
One success, only one great success, and the enormous multitude of
those who are justly discontented with the foul and corrupt system
which has been established, but who have been daunted by repeated
failures, will rise as one man, and claim that which is due to the
whole human race, sweeping away all obstacles with the might and the
majesty of a torrent. You, Clive, you, I am sure, are not insensible
to the wrongs which we all suffer."

"I am neither unaware that there are many evils tolerated by law, nor
many iniquities sanctioned by law," replied Clive, "nor insensible to
the necessity of their removal; but at the same time, I am fully
convinced that there is a way by which they can be removed--and that
the only way in which they ever will be removed--without violence or
bloodshed, or the many horrors and disasters which must always
accompany anything like popular insurrection. When the people of
England think fit to make their voice heard--I mean the great mass of
the people--that voice is strong enough to sweep away, slowly but
surely, every one of the wrongs of which we have cause to complain."

"But how can it make itself heard, that voice of the people of
England?" demanded Norries; "where can it make itself heard? The
people of England--the many, the multitude, the strength of the land,
the labouring poor--have no voice in the senate, at the bar, on the
bench. The church of the majority is the rich man's church, the law of
the land is the rich man's law, the parliament of the country is the
rich man's parliament. But it is vain talking with you of such things
now; but come and hear us for one single night--hear our arguments,
hear our resolutions, and you will not hesitate to join us."

"No," replied Clive, in a firm tone, "I will not, Norries; I would
rather trust myself to calm deliberate thought than to exciting
oratory or smooth persuasions. In fact, Norries, as you well know, and
as I have known long, I am of too eager and impetuous a nature, too
easily moved, to place myself willingly in temptation. When I argue
tranquilly with myself, I am master of myself; but when I go and
listen to others, the strong passions of my young nature rise up. I
keep myself free from all brawls; I enter into disputes with no man,
for in my past life the blow of anger has too frequently preceded the
word of remonstrance, and I have more than once felt occasion to be
ashamed of myself as an impetuous fool, even where I have not had to
reproach myself as an unjust aggressor."

"You have had enough to bear, Clive," replied Norries; "as I know from
my poor lost Mary, your dear sister--'the oppressor's wrong, the proud
man's contumely, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient
merit of the unworthy takes.' With the old Saxon blood strong in your
veins, the old Saxon freedom powerful in your heart, have not you and
yours, from generation to generation, been subject to the
predominating influence of the Norman usurpers, and are you not still
under their sway? But hark! there are people at the door, and many of
them. Perhaps they have come to seek me."

Clive strode hastily to the window, and looked out, but then turned
round, saying, "No, it is the people from Brandon House--Sir Arthur
Adelon and all the rest--come down, I dare say, to inquire after
Helen, for they are very fond of her, as well they may be."

"Sir Arthur Adelon!" repeated Norries, with a slight smile, "that is
well; let me look at him;" and he too approached the window. "He is
much changed," he continued, as he gazed out, "and perhaps as much
changed in mind as in person--but yet I must have him with us, Clive.
He must give us his support, for it is necessary to have some gilding
and some tinsel even on the flag of liberty."

Clive laughed aloud. "You mistake, you mistake, Norries," he said; "if
you calculate thus rashly, your schemes are vain indeed. Sir Arthur
Adelon is a mere man of the world; kind and good-humoured enough, but
with no energy or resolution such as are absolutely necessary in those
who join in great undertakings."

"It is you who mistake, Clive," replied Norries; "you see but the
exterior. Underneath it there are strong things mingled with weak
ones--passions powerful enough and persevering; and you shall see that
man, with his high station, wealth, and name, shall go with me in that
which I undertake, and shall prove a shelter and defence in case of
need, should anything discover a portion of our schemes before they
are matured. I must see him this very day before I go to Barhampton,
for thither I shall certainly proceed to-night."

"Well, Norries, well, you know best," answered Clive, with a faint
smile; "when I see these wonders, I may have more confidence. Till
then, I tell you fairly, all your plans seem to me to be rashness
approaching to madness. I must go down and receive them, however, for
I hear they have come in. Shall I tell Sir Arthur that you wish to see
him, Norries?"

"No," answered the other, thoughtfully; "I will take my own
opportunity." And Clive departed, leaving him alone.




CHAPTER VII.


I know no more delightful sensation upon earth, than when a being whom
we love, acting beneath our eyes, but unconscious that we are
watching, fulfils to the utmost the bright expectations that we have
formed; while in the deed, and the tone, and the manner we see the
confirmation of all that we had supposed, or dreamed, or divined of
excellence in heart and mind. Charles Dudley loved Eda Brandon, and
all she did or said was of course a matter of deep interest to him;
and although I will not say he watched, yet he observed her conduct
during the morning of which I have been writing, and especially during
their visit to the Grange, as Mr. Clive's house was called. He thought
it was perfect; and so perhaps it was, as nearly as anything of the
earth can be perfect; and perhaps, although there was no great event
to call strong feelings into action, although there was nothing which
would seem to an ordinary eye a trial of character or demeanour, yet
there was much which, to a very keen and sensitive mind, showed great
qualities by small traits. Helen Clive was in an inferior position of
life to Eda Brandon. It may be said that the difference was very
slight: that her father cultivated his own land; that she had
evidently received the education and possessed the manners of a lady;
but yet the very slightness of the difference might make the demeanour
of the one towards the other more difficult--not, perhaps, to be what
the world would call very proper, but to be perfect. It might be too
cold, it might be too familiar; for there is sometimes such a thing as
familiarity which has its rise in pride, and the object of it is more
likely to feel hurt by it than even by distance of manner. But there
was nothing of the kind in the conduct of Eda Brandon. She treated
Helen in every respect as an equal: one with whom she had been long on
terms of intimate affection, and who required no new proof that she
saw no difference between the position of Mr. Clive's daughter and
that of the heiress of Brandon and all its wealth. There was no
haughtiness; there was no appearance of condescension: the haughtiest
mark of pride. It was easy, kind, unaffected, but quiet and ladylike;
and although Helen herself felt a little nervous, not at the station,
but at the number of the guests who poured in, Eda's manner soon put
her completely at ease, and the only thing which seemed at all to
discompose her, was a certain sort of familiar gallantry in the
manners of Lord Hadley, which even pained another present more than
herself.

But it is with Eda and Dudley that I wish particularly to deal just
now; and one thing I may remark as seemingly strange, but not really
so. It was with delight, as I have said, that Dudley observed the
demeanour of Eda Brandon towards Helen Clive; but a saddening
sensation of despondency mingled with the pleasure, and rendered it
something more than melancholy. It was like that of a dying parent
witnessing the success and growing greatness of a beloved child, and
knowing that his own eyes must soon close upon the loved one's career
of glory. He said to himself, "She never can be mine: long years of
labour and toil, struggles with a hard and difficult profession, and
fortunate chances with many long lapses between, could alone put me in
a position to seek her love or ask her hand; and in the mean time her
fate must be decided."

As they had walked down from the house, Lord Hadley had been
continually by her side. He had evidently been much struck and
captivated. A vague hint had been thrown out that a union between
himself and the heiress of Brandon had been contemplated by kind and
judicious friends; and a meaning smile which had crossed the lip of
young Edgar Adelon, when he saw Lord Hadley bending down and saying
something apparently very tender in his cousin's ear, had sent a pang
through the heart of Dudley, which his young companion would not have
inflicted for worlds had he known the circumstances. Again and again
Dudley repeated to himself, "It is impossible. How can I--why should I
entertain any expectation? The warrior goes into the strife armed; the
racer is trained and prepared for the course: I have no weapons for
the struggle, no preparation for the race, although the prize is all
that is desirable in life. I will yield this all-vain contention; I
will withdraw from a scene where everything which takes place must
give me pain. It is easily done. The term of my engagement with Lord
Hadley is nearly at an end; and I can easily plead business of
importance for leaving him here, now that our tour is finished, and
once more betaking myself to my books, wait in patience till the time
comes for that active life in the hard world of realities, which will,
I trust, engross every feeling, and occupy every thought."

Such were his reflections and resolutions as the party, after taking
leave of Helen and Mr. Clive, walked out of the door of the Grange to
return to Brandon House. I often think that all reflections are vain,
and all resolutions worse than vain. The first are but as the games of
childhood--the construction of gay fabrics out of materials which have
no solidity; the second are but shuttlecocks between the battledoors
of circumstances. So, at least, Charles Dudley found them both.

It is necessary, however, before I proceed farther, to say something
of the exact position of the parties as they quitted the house. Eda
and her uncle went first; Dudley followed half a step farther back;
and Lord Hadley and Edgar came next. As Dudley was walking on, with
his eyes bent on the ground, he heard the voice of Sir Arthur's son
exclaim, "Eda, Eda, we are going down by the stream, Lord Hadley and
I, to see the ruins of the priory. Let us all go."

"No, dear Edgar," answered Miss Brandon, "I can't indulge your
wandering propensities to-day. I shall be tired by the time I get
home, and have got a letter to write."

"I can't go either, Edgar," said his father; "for I have a good deal
of business to do."

"Well, Mr. Dudley, at all events you will come," said Edgar Adelon;
but Mr. Dudley replied by informing him that he had passed some time
at the priory already that morning.

"Well, come along, Lord Hadley, then," said Edgar, in a gay tone; "I
never saw such uninteresting people in my life, and you shall have the
treat and the benefit of my conversation all to yourself. I will tell
you the legend, too, and show you what a set of people these Brandons
have been from generation to generation."

Lord Hadley did not decline, and they walked away together down the
course of the stream, whilst Sir Arthur and his niece, accompanied by
Dudley, pursued their course towards Brandon. They were about halfway
between the Grange and the gates of the park, when a quick but heavy
step was heard behind them, and Dudley, turning his head, saw a stout
farm-servant following, somewhat out of breath. The man walked
straight up to Sir Arthur Adelon, and presented a note, saying, "I was
to give you that directly, your honour."

Sir Arthur took the note, and looked at the address without any
apparent emotion; but when he opened it, his aspect changed
considerably, and he stopped, saying, in a hesitating manner, "I must
go back--I must go back."

"Oh! it is but a short distance," said Eda; "we can return with you."

"No, my dear, no," answered her uncle, with what seemed a good deal of
embarrassment in his air; "you had better go on to Brandon. Mr. Dudley
will, I am sure, escort you."

"Assuredly," replied Dudley, gravely; and Sir Arthur adding, "I may
not, perhaps, be back to luncheon, Eda, but do not wait for me,"
turned, and with a quick step hurried along the road towards Mr.
Clive's house.

It seemed as if everything had combined to leave Charles Dudley and
Eda Brandon alone together. If he had laboured a couple of years for
such a consummation it would not have occurred. He did not offer Eda
his arm, however; and although his heart was beating very fast with
feelings that longed for utterance, he walked on for at least a
hundred and fifty yards, without a word being spoken on either side.
Ladies, however, feel the awkwardness of silence more than men; and
Eda, though she was shaking very unaccountably, said at length, "I am
afraid, Mr. Dudley, that what you find here is not so beautiful and
interesting as the scenes you have lately come from. You used, I
remember, to be a very enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of
nature."

Dudley raised his fine eyes to her face, and gazed at her for a moment
with melancholy gravity. "All I admired then," he said at length, "I
admire now. All I loved then, dear Miss Brandon, I love now. It is
circumstances which have changed, not I."

"I did not know that circumstances had changed," said Eda, in a low
and sweet tone, as if she really felt sympathy with him for the grief
his manner implied. "I had heard that a sad, a terrible change of
circumstances had occurred some time before; but I was not at all
aware that any new cause of grief or disappointment had been added."

Dudley again thought before he answered; but it was not the thought of
calculation, or if it was, it was but the calculation of how he should
answer calmly; how he should speak the true feelings of his heart with
moderation and gentleness: not at all a calculation of whether it were
better to speak those feelings or not.

"You are right, Miss Brandon," he said, "the change of circumstances
had taken place before; but all things have their consequences; and
the results of those material alterations in fortune and station
which had befallen me, were still to be made manifest to, and worked
out by, myself. When first we met, you were very young--not sixteen, I
think--and I was not old. Everything was in the spring-day with me. It
was all full of promise. I had in those days two fortunes: worldly
wealth, and even a greater store of happy hopes and expectations--the
bright and luxuriant patrimony of inexperienced youth. From time to
time we saw each other; till, when last we met, prosperity had been
taken from me, the treasure of earthly riches was gone, and though not
actually beggared, I and my poor father were in a state of absolute
poverty. Still the other fortune, that rich estate of youthful hope
and inexperienced expectation, though somewhat diminished, was not
altogether gone. I fancied that, in the eyes of the noble and the
good, wealth would make no difference. I had never found it make any
difference to me in my estimation of others. I imagined that those
qualities which some had esteemed and liked in me, would still at
least retain my friends. I never for an instant dreamed that it could
or ought to have an influence on the adamant of love. I had almost
said and done rash things in those days; but you went away out of
London, and I soon began to perceive that I had bitterly deceived
myself."

"You never perceived any difference in me," cried Eda, her voice
trembling with emotions which carried away all discretion. "You do not
mean to say, Mr. Dudley, that you saw, or that you thought you saw,
such base weakness in my nature as would render of the slightest value
in my eyes a change of fortune in those I--I----" And extending her
left hand, as if to cast the idea from her, she turned away, and shook
her head sorrowfully, with her eyes full of tears.

"No, no, Miss Brandon!" answered Dudley; "no, no, Eda! I said not so.
It was the world taught me the world's views. Nay, more, I laid the
blame of misunderstanding those views upon myself, not others. I saw
some reason even in those views which debarred me from happiness; I
felt the due value of station and fortune when I had lost them, which
I never felt while they were my own. But listen to me still with
patience for one moment. Expectation was not yet fully tamed. I said
to myself, I will make myself a station, I will regain the fortune
which has been lost; and then, perhaps, love may re-illumine the torch
of hope at its own flame, and all be light once more."

"Love!" murmured Eda, in a low tone, as he paused for an instant; but
Dudley went on:--

"The hardest lesson of all was still to learn: how slow, how
hopelessly slow, is man's progress up the steep hill which leads to
fame and emolument in this world: how vain is the effort to start into
eminence at once! I had to learn all that consuming thought, and
bitter care, and deep disappointment, and hopeless love, and the
anguish of regret, can do to wear the strongest frame, and wring the
firmest heart, and quell the brightest expectations, and batten down
the springs of life and hope beneath the heavy load of circumstances."

"Oh! Dudley, Dudley," cried Eda, "why, why should you yield to such
dark impressions?"

"Eda," said Dudley, "would you have had me hope?"

"Yes, yes," she answered, with her cheek glowing and her eyes full of
tears, as they passed the park gates and entered the avenue. "Hope
ever! ever hope! and let not adverse circumstances crush a noble
spirit and a generous heart. See, there is Mr. Filmer coming down
towards us; I must wipe these foolish tears from my eyes. But let me
add one warning. I have said a generous heart, because, indeed, I
believe yours to be so; but yet, Dudley, it was hardly generous enough
when you imagined that those whom you judged worthy of love and esteem
could suffer one consideration of altered fortunes to make even the
slightest change in their regard or in their conduct. You should never
have fancied it, and must never, never fancy it again. I can hardly
imagine," she said, turning, and looking at him with a bright smile,
as she uttered words of reproach which she knew were not quite
justified, thus qualifying with that gay look the bitter portion of
her speech: "I can hardly imagine that you know what true love is, or
you would be well aware that it is, indeed, as you said yourself, a
thing of adamant: unchangeable and everlasting. On it no calumny can
rest, no falsehood make impression; the storms and tempests of the
world, the labour of those who would injure or defame, the sharp
chisel of sarcasm, the grinding power of argument and opposition, can
have no effect. Such is strong, true love. It must be love founded on
esteem and confidence, but then, believe me, it is immoveable. If ever
you love, remember this."

"If ever I love, Eda?" answered Dudley, gazing at her; "you know too
well that I do love; that I have loved for years."

"I once thought so," replied Eda, in a low tone; "but hush! Dudley,
hush! let us compose ourselves: he is coming near."

"He does not see us," said Dudley; "his eyes are bent upon the ground.
Can we not avoid him by turning through the trees?"

"No, no," answered Miss Brandon; "he sees everything. Never suppose at
any time that because his eyes are bent down they are unused. He is
all sight, and never to be trusted. Is my cheek flushed? I am sure it
ought to be," she added, as her mind reverted to the words she had
spoken: "I am sure it ought to be, for I feel it burn."

"A little," replied Dudley, gazing at her with a look of grateful
love; "but he will not remark it."

"Oh! yes, he will," answered Eda, giving a timid glance towards
Dudley's face, and then drawing down her veil. "Yours is quite pale."

"It is with intense emotions," replied Dudley; "emotions of gratitude
and love."

"Hush! hush!" she said; "no more on that score; we shall be able to
talk more hereafter. What a beautiful day it has been after such a
stormy night. One could almost fancy that it was spring returned, if a
bird would but begin to sing."

"Ah! no," answered Dudley, somewhat sorrowfully; "though there be
browns in both, the colours of the autumn are very different from
those of the spring; the hues of nascent hope are in the one, of
withering decay in the other; and though the skies of autumn may be
glorious, they are the skies of spring which are sweet."

They were now within some twenty or thirty paces of Mr. Filmer, who
was still walking on, calmly and quietly, with his eyes bent upon the
ground, as if absorbed in deep and solemn meditation. The light and
shadow, as he passed the trees, fell strangely upon him, giving a
phantom-like appearance to his tall dark figure and pale face; and
there was a fixed and rigid firmness in his whole countenance which
might have made any casual observer at that moment think him the
veriest ascetic that ever lived.

Eda, who knew him well, and had read his character more profoundly
than he imagined, led the way straight up to him, though they had
before been on the other side of the avenue, as if she were determined
that he should not pass without taking notice of them, and when they
were at not more than three yards' distance, he started, saying, "Ah!
my dear young lady, I did not see you. Why, your party has become
small." And his face at once assumed a look of pleasing urbanity,
which rendered the whole expression as different as possible from that
which his countenance had borne before.

"Edgar and Lord Hadley," answered Eda, "have gone to see the priory,
and my uncle was coming home with us, when somebody stopped him upon
business and carried him off."

"Mr. Dudley and I visited the priory this morning," replied Mr.
Filmer; "and he seemed exceedingly pleased with it, I am happy to
say."

"I was very much so, indeed," said Dudley. "In truth, my reverend
friend, I feel a great interest in all those remnants of former times,
when everything had a freshness and a vigorous identity which is lost
in the present state of civilisation. I forget who is the author who
compares man in the present polished and artificial days to a worn
shilling which has lost all trace of the original stamp; but it has
often struck me as a very just simile. I like the mark of the die; and
every object which recalls to my mind the lusty, active past, is worth
a thousand modern constructions. Even the university in which I have
been educated I love not so much for its associations with myself as
for its associations with another epoch. There is a cloistral,
secluded calm about some of the colleges, which has an effect almost
melancholy and yet pleasurable."

Mr. Filmer replied in an easy strain, as if he had remarked nothing;
but, nevertheless, he had perceived, somehow, without even raising his
eyes, that Eda had dropped the veil over her face as he came near, and
he saw that there were traces of agitation both on her countenance and
on that of Dudley. He remarked, too, that Dudley spoke more and more
eloquently upon many subjects during the rest of the day; that, in
fact, there was a sort of relief apparent in his whole manner, and in
all his words; and he formed a judgment not very far from the truth.
Such a judgment, from indications so slight, is not unusual in men who
have been educated as he had been, to mark the slightest peculiarities
of manner, the slightest changes of demeanour, that occur in their
fellow-men, in order to take advantage of them for their own purposes.
In the present instance he continued quietly his observations, without
letting any one perceive that he was watching at all; but not a word,
nor a look, nor a tone of Eda Brandon and Charles Dudley escaped him
during the day.

Turning back with Miss Brandon and her lover towards the house, Mr.
Filmer, or Father Peter, as he was sometimes called by Sir Arthur's
servants, accompanied them to the door, and then proposed that they
should cross the park to a little fountain, covered with its old cross
and stone, which he described as well worthy of Dudley's attention.
Eda confirmed his account of its beauty, but said that she must
herself go in, as she was a good deal fatigued, and had also to write
a letter. She advised Dudley, however, to go and see it; and if the
truth must be told, she was not sorry to avoid the priest's society,
for in his presence she felt a restraint of which she could not divest
herself, even at times when she could detect no watching on the part
of Filmer. She knew that he was observing with the quiet, shrewd eyes
of Rome, and the very feeling embarrassed her.

Dudley had no excuse for staying behind, and he accompanied the priest
on his walk, conversing on indifferent subjects, and not yet fully
aware that every word and even look, was watched by one who let nought
fall to the ground. For nearly a couple of hundred yards the two
gentlemen walked on in silence; but then Mr. Filmer, in pursuit of his
own investigations, observed, in a sort of meditative tone, "What a
sweet, charming girl that is! I think I understood that you had known
her long, Mr. Dudley."

"For many years," replied his companion. "When first I knew her she
was quite a girl, I had almost said a child, and very lovely even
then; but I had no idea that she was the niece of Sir Arthur Adelon."

"Her mother was his sister," replied Mr. Filmer; "and the way in which
she became Sir Arthur's ward was this:--Her father died when she was
quite young, leaving her entirely to the control of her mother, as her
sole guardian and his executrix. She was a very amiable woman, Mrs.
Brandon, though, unfortunately, her husband had converted her to your
church. I believe she was very sorry for her apostacy before her
death, and, at all events, she left Miss Brandon to the guardianship
of her brother, Sir Arthur, with the entire management of her
property."

"Till she comes of age, I suppose?" Dudley replied, as the other made
a short pause.

"Yes; but before that time she will be probably married," answered the
priest.

"To Lord Hadley, perhaps you think?" rejoined Dudley, with very
different feelings from those with which he would have pronounced such
words some two or three hours before.

"Oh, no!" answered Mr. Filmer, calmly; "I do not think that Sir Arthur
would ever consent to her marriage with a Protestant. I know that he
would sooner see her bestow her hand upon the humblest Catholic
gentleman in England."

Dudley was somewhat puzzled. If the assertion of the priest could be
relied upon, why had Sir Arthur Adelon so ostentatiously asked Lord
Hadley there. The priest said it in a natural, easy tone; but Dudley
felt that in some degree he had himself been trying to extract
information from Mr. Filmer, and that the attempt was somewhat
dangerous with a Roman Catholic priest. He did not feel quite sure,
indeed, that he had not betrayed a part of his own secrets while
endeavouring to gain intelligence of the views of others. "I should
have thought that the feelings of Sir Arthur Adelon were more liberal,
especially as he has always yourself beside him," said Dudley, with a
slight inclination of the head.

"You do me more than justice, my young friend," replied Mr. Filmer;
"it is very natural in these times, when there is a persecuting and
oppressive spirit abroad, that we should wish to see an heiress of
great wealth, and whose husband must possess great influence, bestow
her hand upon a person of our own religious creed. I may say this can
be felt without the slightest degree of bigotry, or any view of
proselytism. I have none, I can assure you; and indeed you may judge
that it is so when you know that one of my best friends and most
constant companions is the clergyman of the little church the spire of
which you see rising up there just above the hill. My feeling is that
there is not sufficient difference between the two churches--although
yours, I feel, is in some points a little heretical--to cause any
disunion between honest and well-meaning men; and moreover, though
anxious myself to see others adopt what I conceive to be just views,
yet I confess the object of their conversion does not appear to me so
great a one as to hazard the slightest chance of dissension in order
to obtain it."

"Those are very liberal opinions, indeed," said Dudley; "and though I
know that a good many of the laymen of the church of Rome entertain
them, I was not aware that they are common amongst the clergy."

"More common than you imagine, my young friend," answered the priest;
"in fact the heads of the church, itself are not so intolerant as you
suppose. Rules have been fixed, undoubtedly; definitions have been
given; but it is always in the power of the church to relax its own
regulations; and when sincere and devout Christianity, a feeling of
that which is orthodox, and a veneration for those traditions which,
descending from generation to generation through the mouths of saints
and martyrs, may be considered as pure and uncorrupt as the Scriptures
themselves, are perceived in any one, the church is always willing to
render his return to her bosom easy and practicable, by relinquishing
all those formal points of discipline which may be obnoxious to his
prejudices, and by relaxing the severity of those expositions, the
cutting clearness of which is repugnant to a yet unconfirmed mind."

Dudley paused in great surprise, asking himself, "What is his object?"
This is a question which is rarely put by any man to his own heart
without some strong doubt of the sincerity of the person he has been
conversing with.

"What is his object?" thought Dudley. "Does he really hope to convert
me by the mingled charms of his own eloquence, and the fascination of
my dear Eda's fortune?" He resolved, however, not to display his real
opinion of the arguments used, but to suffer the worthy priest to
pursue his own course and expose his own purposes. "He must do it
sooner or later," he said; "and then I shall discover what is the
meaning of this long discourse. In the mean time, he cannot shake
Eda's confidence in me, nor my love for her."

"I am happy to find," continued Dudley, aloud, "that such very just
and liberal views are entertained; for undoubtedly the definitions of
the Council of Trent have been one of the great stumbling-blocks in
the way of those persons who would willingly have abandoned doctrines
of which they are by no means sure, to embrace others emanating from a
church, the principal boast of which is its invariable consistency
with itself."

The priest looked at him with a doubtful and hesitating glance. He was
apprehensive, perhaps, of showing too much of the policy of the church
of Rome; and he stopped, as it was his invariable custom to do when
the expression of his opinions might do injury to the cause he
advocated, and no great object was to be obtained. He thought, indeed,
in the present instance, that something more might be ventured; but
yet he judged it more prudent to wait awhile, calculating that if he
managed well, growing passion might do the work of argument; and after
viewing, with Dudley, the little fountain, he turned back to the
house, directing his conversation to subjects of a totally different
character, grave but not ascetic, round which he threw a peculiar and
extraordinary charm. It was very strange the fascination of his manner
and conversation. When first its power was felt by any keen and quick
mind, one strove to grasp and analyze it, to ascertain in what it
consisted; but like those subtle and delicate essences which chemists
sometimes prepare, and which defy analysis, something, and that the
most important, that which gave efficacy and vigour to the whole,
always escaped. The words seemed nothing in themselves: a little
subtle, perhaps, somewhat vague, not quite definite. The manner was
calm and gentle, the look was only at wide distant moments emphatic;
but yet there was a certain spirit in the whole which seemed to glide
into the heart and brain, unnerving and full of languor, disarming
opposition, persuading rather than convincing, wrapping the senses in
pleasing dreams rather than presenting tangible objects for their
exercise. It was like the faint odours of unseen plants, which,
stealing through the night air, visit us with a narcotic rather than a
balmy influence, and lull us to a deadly sleep, without our knowing
whence they come or feeling the effect till it is too late.




CHAPTER VIII.


Sir Arthur Adelon, after leaving Eda and Dudley together, hurried back
as fast as he could go to the house of Mr. Clive, passing by the way
the man who had brought him the note, which he still held clasped
firmly in his hand. He was evidently a good deal agitated when he set
out; the muscles of his face worked, his brow contracted, and muttered
sentences escaped his lips. From this state he seemed to fall into
deep thought. The emotions probably were not less intense, but they
were more profound; and when he came near the house he stopped and
leaned for a moment against the gate, murmuring, "What can it be?"
After a pause of a moment or two he rang the bell, and asked the maid
who appeared, where the gentleman was who had sent him that letter.
The woman seemed somewhat confused, said she did not know anybody had
sent him a letter, but that Mr. Clive was in the drawing-room with his
daughter. Her embarrassment, and that of the baronet, however, were
removed, almost as she spoke the last words, by a voice calling down
the stairs and saying, "Sir Arthur Adelon, will you do me the honour
of walking up hither?"

The baronet instantly obeyed the invitation, but it was with a very
pale face, and the next instant he was in the room with Norries. The
latter had withdrawn into the chamber where his conference had taken
place with Clive, and he fixed a steadfast gaze on the baronet as he
entered; then turning towards the door, he closed it and waved his
visitor to a seat, taking one himself at the same time, and still
keeping his bright gray eyes fixed firmly upon the baronet's face.
Hitherto not a word had been spoken, and Norries remained silent for
some instants; but at length he said, "I perceive, both by your coming
and your demeanour, Sir Arthur Adelon, that you have not forgotten
me."

"Oh, no! Mr. Norries," replied the baronet; "I remember you quite
well, and am happy to see you. But is it not somewhat dangerous for
you to visit England just now?"

"Not in the least, I think," said Norries. "I am obliged to you for
your solicitude, Sir Arthur. If it had shown itself materially twelve
months ago, it might have kept me out of York Castle."

"I really do not see how I could have served you," answered Sir Arthur
Adelon; "indeed, I never knew that you were in York Castle."

"For three days," replied Norries, laconically. "But this is
irrelevant; let me speak of more important affairs. As your memory is
so good, you have probably not forgotten yet what took place eight and
six years ago, in regard to transactions affecting Charles Dudley,
Esquire, since dead."

"Well, sir, well!" cried Sir Arthur, "what of that?"

"You inquired once," said Norries, "for the correspondence respecting
that affair; I think I could give you some information concerning it."

"Was it not burnt?" exclaimed Sir Arthur. "You told me it was burnt."

"Pardon me, Sir Arthur," replied Norries; "I never told you any such
thing. My partner did, but he lied in this case as in many others, and
I, who knew little of the transaction at the time, found the papers
after his death, and have them safe in my possession."

There was some writing paper lying on the table, clean and unsullied;
but without knowing what he did, Sir Arthur Adelon took it in his
hands, and in two minutes it was twisted into every conceivable shape.
Norries gazed at him with the slightest possible smile; and in the end
he said, "I am afraid, Sir Arthur, that paper will not be very
serviceable; however, we can get more."

"Paha!" cried Sir Arthur Adelon; "let us think of serious things, Mr.
Norries. Those letters must be destroyed. Do you mean to say they were
all preserved?"

"Every one," answered Norries; "nay, more. I have spoken of eight and
of six years ago, but amongst the documents there are several of a
much earlier period, which show that the schemes then executed had
been long devising, that the purpose then accomplished had been long
nourished. The motives, too, are very evident from certain passages;
and I now tell you, Sir Arthur Adelon, that if I had been made aware
of the facts--of the whole facts--those schemes would never have been
accomplished, that purpose would have been frustrated."

And he gazed sternly at the baronet, setting his teeth hard.

"My partner, Mr. Sherborne," continued Norries, after a pause, during
which his companion uttered not a word, but remained with his eyes
bent down, and his teeth gnawing his nether lip; "my partner, Mr.
Sherborne, was a great scoundrel, as you know, Sir Arthur. In fact,
you knew it at the time you employed him."

"No, sir, I did not," exclaimed Sir Arthur, catching at the last word.

"Yes, Sir Arthur, you did," replied Norries, firmly; "or you never
would have employed him in so rascally a business."

"He suggested to me everything that was done," replied the baronet,
eagerly.

"In consequence of a private conversation, of which he made a note,"
rejoined Norries, "and of a letter, still preserved, so confirmatory
of the memorandum, that there can be no doubt of its accuracy."

The face of Sir Arthur Adelon flushed. He was a man of one sort of
courage, and he replied, haughtily, "I think you intend to insult me,
sir. Beware what you are doing."

"I am quite aware," answered Norries, slowly inclining his head;
"neither do I intend at all to insult you, Sir Arthur. I speak truth
in plain terms, having learned in sorrow and adversity that such is
the only right course to pursue. In justice and in good faith I ought
to place the whole of those papers in the hands of a gentleman nearly
related to that Mr. Dudley--his son, I mean."

"It could do him no good," exclaimed the baronet; "the thing is past
and gone; he ruined and dead; nothing can by any farther means be
recovered. This Mr. Dudley, could not regain a shilling, nor an acre
of his father's property, as you well know."

"True," replied Norries; "there are some things in law which have no
remedy, as I do well know; but it is right that the son should learn
who ruined his father, and he should have known long ago, but for one
circumstance which may perhaps operate still farther."

"What is that?" demanded the baronet, quickly; "I have no objection
whatsoever to give a considerable sum for the possession of those
papers. They can be of no use to any one but myself. Come, let us talk
reasonably, Mr. Norries--let us say a thousand pounds."

"Money will not do, here, sir," answered the other, in a contemptuous
tone; "it had its effect upon Mr. Sherborne, who was a rascal; but it
will have no effect upon his partner, who is an honest man."

"Then what, in heaven's name, do you want?" demanded Sir Arthur
Adelon.

"To see you act up to your professions, Sir Arthur," replied Norries.
"At the election which began poor Mr. Dudley's ruin, and which I had
some share in conducting on your part, you professed, and I really
believe entertained--for I think that, in that at least, you were
sincere--principles of firm and devoted attachment to the cause of the
people. You declared that if they did but return you to parliament,
you would advocate all measures in favour of their rights and
liberties; you were more than what is called a Radical--you were a
Reformer in the true sense of the word; you gloried in being descended
from the old Saxon race; you pointed out that your name itself was but
a corruption of that of one of our last Saxon princes; and you
promised to do your best to restore to the people that perfect freedom
which is an inalienable inheritance of the Saxon blood. You called
your son Edgar, in memory of Edgar Atheling, and you promised, in my
hearing, to maintain those principles at all times and under all
circumstances, with your voice, with your hand, with your heart's
blood. Now, Sir Arthur, I call upon you to redeem that promise; and if
you do, in the way I shall point out, you shall have those papers. I
have kept them back from the person to whom, perhaps, they ought
justly to have been given, because I would not blacken the name of one
whom I believed to be a true patriot. I found excuses for you in your
own mind to excuse to myself my retention of them. I knew you to be a
man of strong passions under a calm exterior; I knew that strong
passions, whenever they become masters, are sure to become despots;
and I thought that you had acted to the man we have mentioned, under
an influence that was overpowering--the influence of the strongest and
most ungovernable of all the passions: the thirst for revenge."

"Revenge!" exclaimed Sir Arthur. "Who told you I was moved by
revenge?"

"No one told me," answered Norries; "I knew it. I might have read it
in every line of those letters; I might have seen it in every deed you
did; but there was a portion of your previous history, Sir Arthur,
which I knew from my connexion with that part of the country, and
which when once the machinations were exposed to my view, afforded
the key to all. I ask you, Sir Arthur Adelon, whether some six or
seven-and-twenty years ago, Mr. Charles Dudley did not carry off from
your pursuit, the lady on whom you had fixed your heart?"

Sir Arthur Adelon's usually placid face assumed the expression of a
demon; and no longer averting his eyes from the fixed, stern gaze of
Norries, he stared full in his face in return, and slowly inclined his
head. He said not a word, but that look and that gesture were
sufficient reply. They said, more plainly than any words could have
spoken, "You have divined it all; you have fathomed the dark secret of
my heart to the bottom."

"Well, Sir Arthur," continued Norries, with a softened air, "I can
excuse strong passions, for I have them myself, and I know them at
times to be irresistible. In your case, I was sure you had been thus
moved. I looked upon you as a man devoted to the service of your
country; and I thought that, in a case where all other considerations
should give place to the interests of my country, it would be wrong to
damn for ever the name of one who might do her the best and highest of
services. There was but one thing that made me doubt your sincerity."

"You should not doubt it," said Sir Arthur; "I am as sincerely devoted
to the service of my country as ever."

"It is your general sincerity to which I allude," said the
plain-spoken Norries; "and the reason why I doubted it is this. When
you had effected your purpose--when you had ruined an honest and good
man, though a Norman and an aristocrat--you did not boldly and
fearlessly leave him to his fate; you afforded him assistance to save
a pitiful remnant of his property, and affected benevolence and
kindness to a man you hated. I understand it all, Sir Arthur; it was
not unnatural, but it was insincere."

"We had been upon good terms for many years," replied the baronet, who
had now resumed his usual demeanour.

"Good terms!" repeated Norries, with a laugh; "well, be it so. You are
now keeping up the appearance of good terms with the government which
you then opposed, and of which you spoke in language certainly
seditious, as it is called, and perhaps treasonable. These things have
created a doubt. That doubt must be removed, not by words and
professions, not by appearances and pretences, but by acts."

"Speak plainly," said Sir Arthur Adelon. "What is it that you want?"

"There is a meeting to be held at twelve o'clock this night in the
little town of Barhampton," said Norries, "where several gentlemen,
entertaining precisely the same sentiments which you expressed some
eight years ago to the people of Yorkshire, are to take into
consideration what decisive measures can be adopted for obtaining
those objects which you then professed to seek. I require that you
should then join us, and be one of us."

"Impossible!" cried Sir Arthur Adelon, with a look of consternation
and astonishment. "Would you have me attend a seditious meeting at
midnight with a man who has fled from the course of justice--I, a
magistrate for the county?"

A bitter smile came upon the lip of his companion; but he replied
immediately, "Even so! I would, indeed, Sir Arthur. The spirit of
patriotism is not so strong in you, it would seem, as the spirit of
revenge, or you would not hesitate. But thus much, to end all, one way
or the other: you either come, and, if you do come and frankly join
us, without any insincerity, receive the papers I have mentioned; or
you stay away, and Mr. Edward Dudley receives them."

"This is unfair!" exclaimed Sir Arthur Adelon.

"Unfair!" replied Norries; "how unfair, sir? I acting according to my
conscience, however you may be acting. My only reason for withholding
these letters from the person who would have a right to possess them,
if their suppression were not necessary to the service of my country,
is because I trust that you, whose name and station may be an infinite
advantage as a leader of the people hereafter, will put yourself in
that position in which no want of moral courage, no vacillating
hesitation can be shown, or would be possible. If you refuse to do so,
you will take from me my only motive for not giving them to him who
will know how to use them rightly. You will show yourself as insincere
in your professions of patriotism as you were insincere in your
professions of friendship; and I shall then regard you with contempt,
and treat you without consideration."

There was a stern and commanding energy in his manner which crushed
down, as it were, in the breast of Sir Arthur Adelon the angry
feelings which his impetuous words aroused. He felt cowed in the
presence of the bold, fearless man who addressed him. He remembered,
in former times, several traits of his decision and unhesitating
vehemence; and he felt sure that he would do as much or more than he
said. At first, indeed, anger was predominant; he gathered himself up,
as it were, for a spring; but his heart failed him, and he said in a
mild tone, "You are too fierce--you are too fierce! Let me consider
for a moment how this can be arranged. I am as willing as any one to
make sacrifices for my country's advantage; but first you take me by
surprise, next you use words and proceed in a manner which are little
likely to induce me to trust to your guidance."

He thought he had got an advantage, and he was proceeding, gradually
resuming a tone of dignity, when Norries stopped him, saying, "Sir
Arthur Adelon, there are times and circumstances which of themselves,
and in their own pressing nature, abridge all ceremonies. If your
house were on fire, and you in danger of perishing by the flames, I
should not wait for the punctilios of etiquette, but should wake you
roughly, saying, 'Run, run, save your life and your family!' Sir, I
tell you England is on fire, and the time is come for all men to
choose their part. The days of weak indifference are over. Now is the
time for decision and action; but nevertheless, I will not leave you
any excuse, but humbly entreat you to come to our meeting to-night,
and support with your presence, and your voice, and your influence,
those principles which you have asserted warmly on other occasions."

"But it may be very difficult to manage," said Sir Arthur Adelon; "I
have guests in my house, whom I cannot in courtesy leave without some
exceedingly good excuse. I am not accustomed to go out at such hours
of the night, and to do so will certainly appear very suspicious,
especially under existing circumstances."

"All that will be easily arranged," answered Norries. "You are a
magistrate, you say, and may consequently be called upon at any hour
on pressing occasions. You do not, of course, communicate to your
family or your guests the exact business which calls you forth, or the
motives for going at one hour rather than another; but should anything
more be wanting to smoothe the way for you, I will presently write you
a note, calling upon you to be at Barhampton to-night at twelve, on
matters of importance. I do not think," he added, with a sneering
smile, "that even your confessor will venture to cross-question a
gentleman of your independence upon a business with which he has
nothing to do."

"Certainly not," replied Sir Arthur Adelon; "and I have no objection
to come; but I cannot bind myself to anything till I hear upon what
measures your friends decide."

"Nor can I bind myself to anything, then, till I hear upon what you do
decide," rejoined Norries. "The papers are yours whenever you act up
to your professions. I shall ask nothing more, Sir Arthur. I have a
copy of your speech upon an occasion which you well remember; I will
require nothing more of you than to fulfil the pledges therein given,
and the moment you prove you are ready so to act, I resign into your
hands those letters, of which others might not judge so favourably as
I am inclined to judge. Do you promise to come?"

"I do," answered Sir Arthur Adelon, in a firmer tone than he had
hitherto used, but with a certain degree of bitterness too. "Yet,
Norries, there are various other thoughts and considerations of deep
moment, which our conversation of to-day suggests. It revives in me
the memories and feelings of past years. You should have considered
that these matters had passed away from my mind for a long time; that
of the plans, and hopes, and schemes, and passions of those times,
some have been accomplished or gratified, and have been well nigh
forgotten; some, from the utter hopelessness of seeing them
accomplished, have faded away, and become more like a vision than a
reality. What will not a man do when he is eager and excited with the
vehement impulse of fresh feelings and sharp discussions, and the
enthusiasm of those who surround him? But take those accessories away,
and the purposes themselves fall into a sleep from which it requires
some time and preparation to arouse them into active and energetic
being again. You should have considered this, and not pressed me so
eagerly without some preparation."

"Perhaps I should," replied Norries; "but, Sir Arthur, you have known
me long, and have known me to be a brief and abrupt man. _My_ purposes
never sleep; _my_ objects never fade: the one engrossing object of my
country's fate and the welfare of my fellow-men is never a passing
vision to my eyes, but a stern reality ever present, so that I am
little able to comprehend the hesitations of other men."

Sir Arthur Adelon, while the other spoke, had cast down his eyes
thoughtfully, as if little attending to the words of his companion;
but when he ceased speaking, he said, in an abstracted manner, "This
Dudley, too, he has intruded himself into my family. He is now at
Brandon, as you have doubtless heard. The cold, icy hand seemed to
seize my heart again when I saw him. I felt as if the spawn of the
viper were before me, and as if it were destined that the race were to
survive and poison my peace, even when the reptile that first stung me
was crushed."

Norries gazed at him steadfastly, with his brow contracted with a
steady, contemplative, inquiring look; and then he replied, "I do
beseech you, Sir Arthur Adelon, to banish such thoughts, to let the
faults of the dead, if faults there were, rest with the dead. I think
you believe in a God, do you not? Well, sir, there is a God who will
judge him and you. He is gone to receive his judgment; the time will
come, ere long, for you to receive yours. In the mean while, injure
not one who has never injured you, and pursue this fell and heinous
vengeance no further against the son of one whom you once loved----"

"And of one I always hated," answered the baronet, finishing the
sentence for him. "But do you not know, Norries, that as the sweetest
wine turns soonest to vinegar, so love, wronged and despised, changes
to the bitterest hate; as for the rest, I purpose pursuing no
vengeance against the young man. I wish he would quit my dwelling, for
the very feeling of being obliged to maintain a courteous and soft
demeanour towards him, increases the loathing with which I regard him.
That is all--that is all, I assure you; I would do him no harm--but I
love him not, nevertheless."

"I can see that, Sir Arthur Adelon," answered his companion; "and I
see, moreover, a dark and sinister fire in your eyes, which I observed
once before, when first in my presence you mentioned the name of Mr.
Dudley to my partner. There were deeds followed that mention, which I
need not call to your mind. I trust there will be none such now--nay,
nor any attempt towards them; if there be, I will prevent it. I am not
so good a lawyer--indeed, I know but little of the trade--I am not so
good a lawyer as Mr. Sherborne, but I am a bolder, more resolute, and
more honest man. However, I shall see you to-night. Is it not so?"

"Undoubtedly," answered Sir Arthur Adelon; "but you have not yet told
me where I shall find you in Barhampton."

"You had better go to the little inn--the Rose, I think it is called,"
replied Norries; "there is but one. There some one shall come to lead
you to us; for we are upon our guard, Sir Arthur, and resolute neither
to be taken unawares, as some men have been, nor to act rashly, and
bring down destruction on our own heads, as those thoughtless, weak,
and poor-spirited men did in Yorkshire."

"I am very happy to hear it," said the baronet, in a tone of
sincerity. "I will be there somewhat before twelve; till then,
farewell." And shaking Norries by the hand with every sort of apparent
cordiality, he left him, and returned to Brandon. But when he had
re-entered the house, he retired for some time to the library, not to
consider his future conduct, not to review the past. It was, in truth,
that the conversation of that morning had aroused within him feelings
dark, bitter, and deadly, which had slept for years; and he felt he
could not see Mr. Dudley without calming himself, lest sensations
should appear which he wished studiously to conceal from every eye.




CHAPTER IX.


With a quiet, cat-like watchfulness, Mr. Filmer remarked everything
which passed between Eda Brandon and Charles Dudley. It was not words
that he laid in wait for, but looks and gestures, the involuntary as
well as the voluntary, the trifling as well as the important. Nothing
escaped him, not even the accidental trait or the slightest possible
indication of a passing emotion. Not the quick glance of the eye,
withdrawn as soon as given, not the trembling hand nor the quivering
lip, not the irrepressible sigh; not the fit of absence and the sudden
raising of the look to the loved one's face, was unremarked by one who
knew human nature well, and had made a trade of observation. "They
love," was his conclusion, "and they understand each other. That walk
home has concluded what seems to have been begun long ago. Now, then,
what good is to be derived from this affair?"

It is a common calculation which he made, but one very apt to mislead.
Men who see others labouring for the gratification of their passions,
are often tempted by the opportunity to endeavour to rule them for
their own purposes, and then, whatever event occurs, they ask, "What
good is to be derived from this affair?" But they often miscalculate,
because they do not ask themselves also, "Is there anything to be made
of it, with honour and honesty?" If they did they might succeed where
they every day fail.

Mr. Filmer, however, had his own particular views, which led him upon
one peculiar course. His very position gave a direction to all his
actions. The Roman priest stands alone amidst the world, separated
from all the dearest ties of our nature by an irremovable barrier. He
may have sympathies, but they are curtailed and restricted; he may
have affections, but they are limited and enthralled. One predominant
object is ever before him: one career is fixed for his efforts. He
stands alone in the world, I repeat, not so much the servant of God as
the servant of a hierarchy, to the interest and advancement of which
all his energies must be devoted, and for whose purposes all his
talents must be employed. As long as he can bring the satisfaction of
affections, and the gratification of any passions, within the circle
to which the whole course of education from his earliest years has
restricted his consciousness of duty, perhaps they may be more
strongly--I had almost said more fiercely--exercised, from the very
fact of their narrow range; but the moment they would go beyond that
limit, the petrifying influence of an engrossing church comes in, and
changes the man into the mere representation of a system.

Such was the situation of Mr. Filmer. He was by no means without
passions: fiery, eager, impetuous; but they were subdued to the one
strict rule, and setting out with that mighty conquest, it was in
general more easy for him to subdue the minds of other men also. He
was not without considerable abilities--abilities approaching genius.
He might have been a great man, in short, if he had not been compelled
to be an artful man. But for a priest of that church, in the midst of
an adverse population, it is impossible to be otherwise. It is not a
religion of openness and candour; and its means must be covert, its
course tortuous and indirect. Even in the very case of Mr. Dudley, his
passions were not quiescent; but he was prepared to sacrifice all
personal feeling for the one great object of his existence, and he
watched, as I have said, asking himself, "To what uses the events
taking place could be applied?"

It was not, however, Dudley alone whom he watched, nor Dudley and Eda.
Sir Arthur Adelon was also an object of attentive consideration during
the evening. There was something in his manner which showed the keen
eye of the priest that the mind was not at ease: that there was
something working within the baronet's bosom; and he was surprised
that it was not revealed to him at once, for the secret of Sir Arthur
Adelon's thoughts was not often concealed from him. The whole of his
past life had been displayed before Filmer's eyes, and much which had
been taking place had been discussed again and again between them. So
far there was nothing to be concealed; and the priest marvelled that,
if anything had gone wrong in the course of Sir Arthur's morning
expedition, he could sit for several hours without communicating the
fact to him.

Sir Arthur, however, paused and hesitated; not that he feared at all
to recur to the past, but it was his yet unconfirmed purposes for the
future which he hesitated to reveal. He knew that Filmer was a firmer,
more resolute man than himself; he doubted that he would approve any,
even the slightest, concession to fear. That he was politic and
skilful he knew, and that his policy and skill would be exercised in
his patron's behalf he was also fully convinced. But there was a dread
upon him; and he apprehended that the priest would advise measures too
bold for his nerves at that time. If he had been forced into vigorous
defence, Sir Arthur would have sought his advice at once; but there
was a choice of courses before him; he hesitated: hesitation is always
a weakness, and as such is sure to take the weaker course. Twice,
however, during the evening, he caught Filmer's eye resting upon him
with a very inquiring look. He judged that he suspected something, and
therefore he resolved in the end to tell him a part; to show him a
half-confidence; deceiving himself, as all men in such circumstances
do deceive themselves, and believing that he could to a certain extent
deceive Mr. Filmer also, although he had known that clear-sighted and
penetrating man for seven-and-twenty years.

The dinner passed most cheerfully with all but Sir Arthur Adelon. Lord
Hadley was in great spirits; and, seated next Eda, he made himself as
agreeable as moderate talents, gentlemanly manners, and no very
decided character would admit. Dudley was calm, by no means so gay as
his young companion; but yet the happiness that was in his heart, like
a lamp within an alabaster urn, spread light and cheerfulness over
all. Mr. Filmer was, as usual, composed and tranquil in his manner; at
times impressive in his language, but often adding to the gaiety of
others by a quiet jest or epigrammatic reply, which derived additional
force from his seeming unconscious of its possessing any. Eda left the
table very soon after the dessert had appeared. There were those
things in her bosom which made her feel happy in the solitude of her
own chamber. Thought, calm, uninterrupted thought, was at that moment
very sweet to her. She loved and was beloved; and she had the grand
satisfaction of feeling that she had it in her power to raise one to
whom her affections had been given for years, who possessed her
highest esteem, and who she knew well deserved high station, from
unmerited misfortunes to the position which he was born to ornament.
It was indeed a blessing, and Eda went and pondered upon it till her
eyes filled with pleasant tears.

For about a quarter of an hour after she had gone, Sir Arthur Adelon
continued at the table, passing the wine with somewhat nervous haste,
and keeping up a broken conversation from which his thoughts were
often absent. At length he said, speaking across the table, "Filmer,
my reverend friend, I wish to speak with you for a few minutes: Lord
Hadley, Mr. Dudley, you must not suffer the wine to stand while we are
absent; I shall be back almost immediately." And he led the way out of
the room.

Filmer followed him with a quiet smile, saying to himself, as he
walked along towards the library, "What men do timidly they always do
awkwardly; in that they are different from women, in whom timidity is
grace. Adelon has had twenty opportunities of speaking to me, and has
of course chosen the worst."

"Well, Filmer," said the baronet, almost before the door was closed,
"I have something to talk to you about of great importance."

"I thought so, Sir Arthur," answered Mr. Filmer. "What is it?"

"Why did you think so?" inquired his friend, somewhat surprised, and
somewhat apprehensive.

"Because it seemed to me that you had been annoyed at something,"
replied Filmer. "When you are uneasy, Sir Arthur, it is soon
perceived; too soon, indeed. The young and unobserving may not remark
such things, but one who has been, I trust I may say, your friend for
so many years, can perceive when you are uneasy in a moment; and a
very shrewd judge of men's feelings and actions, which I do not
pretend to be, would, I doubt not, discover the uneasiness, even
without having had the advantage of such long acquaintance."

These words, as he intended, added to the embarrassment which Sir
Arthur already felt; but nevertheless he pursued his course,
endeavouring, as far as possible, to conceal that he had any
concealment. "Well, Filmer, well," he said, "men cannot alter their
natures, you know; and the matter is one which might well cause
uneasiness. You recollect that affair of Charles Dudley? You do not at
all doubt that this is his son who is here?"

"No," answered Mr. Filmer, drily; "but we knew that last night. I
certainly did, from the moment I saw the back of his head, and your
face left no doubt that you had made the same discovery."

"The very first sight of him," answered Sir Arthur Adelon, bitterly,
"and the feelings which that sight produced, left me no doubt of who
it was that stood before me. But listen a moment, Filmer--listen a
moment. There is much more behind. You remember well that business of
Charles Dudley, I say, of him who was my friend and companion, my
rival and my enemy, and last, my acquaintance----"

"And your victim," murmured Filmer, in so low a tone that Sir Arthur
Adelon did not remark the words, but added, "and my debtor. You
doubtless also remember the election which we contested, and my
lawyers, Messrs. Sherborne and Norries?"

"Perfectly," answered Filmer; "the one the soul of policy and
intrigue; shrewd, penetrating, subtle, and faithless; the other, the
incarnation of republican energy and determination, rash and
inconsiderate, though full of vigour and ability. He was implicated a
short time ago in the Chartist insurrection, apprehended with his
fellows, if I remember right, and thrust into York jail----"

"Whence he made his escape in two or three days," rejoined Sir Arthur
Adelon. "It would be a strong prison that would keep him in. However,
Sherborne is dead; Norries alive, well, and in this country."

"That is no great matter, then," answered Mr. Filmer. "Sherborne was
the dangerous man, and he is gone. All your communications were with
him, my good friend; at least as far I know, and I think I saw every
letter."

The words, "I think," were spoken in a somewhat doubtful tone, as if
he did not feel quite sure of the extent of Sir Arthur's confidence;
but the baronet replied, eagerly, "Every one, Filmer; and indeed, as
you well know, many of them were dictated by yourself."

"True!" said the priest--"true! I am happy to say they were; I say I
am happy, Sir Arthur, because it was but right that that man should
receive a check. Not contented with marrying a lady of the only true
church, who was promised by her relations to one of their own just and
reasonable belief, he perverted her from the path of truth into that
of error, and in twelve months had filled her mind with all the
foulest doctrines of that heresy in which he had himself been brought
up. It was just and right, Sir Arthur, that he should not be permitted
to go on in such a course, and that he should feel even here the
consequences of those acts."

"Yes; but my dear friend," replied Sir Arthur Adelon, "those papers
are of much importance, let me tell you. Both your character and mine
are compromised if they should ever see the light----"

"But you told me they were burned," said Mr. Filmer, with a
countenance less firm and tranquil than usual.

"Yes; so Sherborne assured me most solemnly," replied Sir Arthur
Adelon; "but nevertheless it is not the truth. They are all in the
hands of this Norries, and he is using every possible means to render
them available for his own purposes."

This was, as the reader knows, substantially true; for Sir Arthur
Adelon was one of those men who do not like to tell a direct
falsehood, even when it is their intention to deceive; and he intended
his words to convey to the mind of the priest a very different
impression of Norries' intentions, while he could always fall back
upon the precise terms he had employed, and put a larger
interpretation upon them than Mr. Filmer was likely to do at the
moment.

The priest mused. "Why what can he do with them?" he demanded, at
length, still in a thoughtful tone. "They can be of little service to
him. The time is long past; the circumstances altogether forgotten.
Charles Dudley, of St. Austin's, is dead----"

"But his son is living," replied the baronet, quickly, impatient
that his companion did not see the importance of the documents at
once--"his son is living; Norries knows that he is here, and he
threatens to place the whole of the papers in his hands."

"That might be unpleasant, certainly," answered Filmer; "although you
had every right to act as you did act, at least such I humbly judge to
be the case; yet one would not like to have all one's private and
confidential communications to a solicitor exposed to the eyes of an
adversary's son."

"Like!" exclaimed Sir Arthur, vehemently; "Filmer, you use wonderfully
cold terms to-night! Why, it would be ruin and destruction! Call to
mind, I beg of you, all the particulars of the transaction. Remember
what was done to lead him on from expense to expense in that business.
Remember all which that man Sherborne suggested, and which we
executed. The matter of the petition, too, against his return, and
what was arranged between our people and his own agents, and the
business of the flaw in the title. You must have forgotten, I think."

"Oh! no," replied the priest; "I have not forgotten, Sir Arthur, and I
say it would be unpleasant, very unpleasant. What does this person
Norries ask for the papers?"

"Oh! a great deal," answered Sir Arthur Adelon, still speaking with
that sort of mental reservation which he had learned betimes; "more
than I am inclined to grant: a great deal more; but I shall see him
to-night. I have an appointment with him at Barhampton, and shall
there learn what is the real extent of his demand."

The priest meditated for several minutes with a grave and somewhat
anxious countenance. "Norries," he said, at length, "was a wild and
somewhat eccentric man, but as far as I could judge, a just and honest
one. His views, too, though somewhat extreme, as his acts were
occasionally ill-timed, were all in a right direction. I am afraid,
Sir Arthur, we have fallen back from the ground we then occupied. The
truth is, my excellent friend, the Church of Rome, as it is called,
the Catholic Church, as it really is, has not that tendency which men
suppose towards the aristocratic distinctions which have risen up in
this land. It might place upon its banner the words 'Civil liberty,
spiritual submission.' It reverences all ancient things: amongst the
rest, ancient blood; but is certainly opposed to an aristocracy
springing from the people, and founded upon wealth; although in itself
it may be termed a spiritual republic, in which every man, according
to his genius and ability, can, with the grace of God, rise to the
very highest of its grades, even to the chair of St. Peter itself. We
have often seen it. But, as is the case in all republics, the utmost
submission is required to the ruling power, although there is always a
corrective for the misuse of power in the synods and councils. It is a
hierarchy, indeed, but a hierarchy open to all men; and as a hierarchy
it is opposed to the domination of all lay powers, which are ever
inclined to resist the milder influence of spiritual powers."

"But what has all this to do with the question?" exclaimed Sir Arthur
Adelon, not comprehending what the reader has perhaps perceived, that
the priest was carrying on in words one train of reasoning, very
loosely connected with the immediate subject, while in thought he was
revolving more pertinently all the difficult points that were before
him.

"What I mean to say is this," replied Mr. Filmer. "Men consider it
strange that Roman Catholics should, from time to time, give their
support to movements savouring of republicanism; and that persons
whose views tend to republicanism should often link themselves closely
with Catholics; but as I have shown, the connexion is not at all
unnatural, and the views of this good man Norries might well be, as
they were, supported by ourselves; even were it not perfectly right
and justifiable, in the pursuit of a great and all-important object,
to combine even with men the most opposed to us in the minor points of
politics, when by so doing we see the probability of advancing the
truth."

"What! would you have me, then, join with him now?" exclaimed Sir
Arthur, in considerable surprise; for the arguments of Father Peter
went so directly to support the inducements held out by Norries, that
the baronet could hardly persuade himself there had not been some
communication between the Chartist and the priest.

"I did not exactly say that," answered Filmer. "Men's views frequently
undergo a change in a few years. I know not what this man's opinions
may now be. He was then an eager advocate for perfect freedom of
religious opinions; he was then for sweeping away altogether what they
call here the Church of the State, and leaving every man to follow
what creed he thinks best."

"But, surely, my reverend friend," exclaimed Sir Arthur Adelon, "such
are principles you would never support or even tolerate? It was in his
religious views alone that I differed from Norries."

The priest smiled with one of those calm, sagacious smiles that have a
certain though moderate portion of triumph in them, the triumph of
superior astuteness. "I would support them for their hour," he said.
"I remember hearing of a wise stratagem practised by a great general
who was besieging a refractory city. The inhabitants had dammed up a
river which ran on one side of the town, and thus had defended their
walls on that side from all attack. The dam or barrier which they had
constructed was immediately under the fire of one of their strongest
works, so that it was unassailable; but the general of whom I speak,
by a week's hard labour, turned the course of a still larger river
into that which served for their defence, and the mighty torrent,
rushing down, swept away the barriers altogether. The river resumed
its equal flow, and the attacking army, marching on, took the town by
storm on the very side where it had been judged impregnable. Now, my
dear friend, the Catholic religion is the attacking army; the revolted
and besieged city is this country of England; the overflowed river
which defends us is moderate toleration of opinion; the barrier which
keeps the waters up is the heretical church of this country, and we
have nought to do but to pour the torrent of licentious freedom
against that barrier till it is quite overthrown, in order to have a
clear way for our march, and to secure our ultimate triumph."

The baronet paused and mused for several moments, partly considering
the new views which his companion had propounded, partly debating with
himself as to whether he should make his confidence more complete than
he had at first intended, and before he replied Mr. Filmer went on
again. "I do not mean to say, Sir Arthur," he continued, "that I would
advise you to take any rash or dangerous step; and indeed, on the
contrary, I think you had a great deal better, while you give
encouragement to the moral movement, oppose most strongly all appeal
to force, till the country is far more prepared for it than at
present. To show yourself upon their side may give vigour to their
proceedings, may gain many adherents to range themselves openly with
them who are merely restrained by fear and timidity, and may assist
them in raising that prestige of power, numbers, and respectability,
which, if it can be maintained, conquers in the end all opposition;
for as you are well aware, so curiously constituted is the mind of
this nation, that no question, however absurd, no view, however false,
no measure, however evil and detrimental, will not gain the adherence
of the great multitude if they can once be taught to believe, by truth
or falsehood, that it is supported by numbers and by respectability. I
have no doubt that, if I could show, or rather, if I could persuade,
the people of England that there are a million or two of atheists in
the land demanding the abolition of all religious worship whatsoever,
the great body of the people would be easily induced to renounce their
God, and endeavour to sweep away every trace of religion from the
land. There is no being on the face of the earth so susceptible of
moral contagion as an Englishman."

"It is a dark view of the case," said Sir Arthur Adelon.

"But a true one," answered Filmer; "otherwise England would have been
still Catholic. However, to return to these papers. You say you will
see Norries again tonight; you must then discover what is the extent
of his demand. I would make him no promises, were I in your place,
till I had had time for thought and deliberation; neither would I
refuse anything that he might demand, that is to say, not absolutely,
till we have consulted together. I will go with you, if you like, to
speak with him."

"I do not think he would open his views before another," said Sir
Arthur, hastily; "but as it is well, my reverend friend, to be
prepared against the worst, let us consider what must be done should
this man's views be very exorbitant, and should he refuse all time for
deliberation."

"Then you must say 'No,' of course," replied Filmer; "and we will take
measures against his measures."

"I see none that we can take," answered the baronet, gloomily. "He
would instantly place the papers in this young man's hands, and then
ruin, and destruction, and disgrace, would be the consequence."

"Should you find that there is danger of his doing so suddenly," was
Mr. Filmer's reply, "we must deal with Mr. Dudley ourselves, either in
attaching him to us by bringing him over to the true faith again,
or----"

"There is no chance of that; there is no chance of that!" exclaimed
the baronet, interrupting him, and waving his hand impatiently.
"Filmer, you think your eloquence can do everything; but you could as
soon move the church of St. Peter, and set it down in the capital of
England, as you would bring back to the true faith one of that
stubborn race of heretics!"

"You are prejudiced, my friend," replied Filmer, calmly; "but do not
suppose that I rely upon my own eloquence. It can do nothing but by
strength from on high, and the voice of the true church is powerful.
Still, temporal means must be employed as well; and I see a way before
me of so completely rendering it his interest, notwithstanding every
cause of enmity he may have, to bury all past deeds in oblivion, to
seek your friendship rather than your hate, and, I trust, even to
return to the bosom of the church, that I am not without very great
hopes of success. Should those hopes prove vain, however, my dear Sir
Arthur, should he show himself deaf to the voice of truth, obstinate
in error, revengeful and rancorous in disposition, we must use the
right of self-defence, which every creature has, and in a firm,
determined spirit, but with prudent skill, retort upon him any attack
he may make upon you, and without hesitation or fear, aim blow after
blow, till he either sinks beneath the assault, or is driven to flight
for safety."

His brow gathered into a stern and determined frown as he spoke; and
Sir Arthur Adelon so well knew his unflinching resolution in the hour
of danger, and his keen and subtle policy in the time of difficulty,
that he gained courage from the courage of his companion, and smiled
with some bitter satisfaction at the thought of pursuing the vengeance
he had already heaped upon the father to the destruction of the son
likewise. He only ventured to observe, "How either of these two
objects is to be accomplished, I do not see."

"Leave that to me," answered Filmer, in a confident tone. "I think you
have never known me fail, Sir Arthur, in that which I promised you to
perform. I will mature my plans, prepare my ground for either course;
and though there may be difficulties which would startle a weak,
irresolute, or unpractised mind, they alarm not me. On the contrary, I
often think it is a blessing of God that I am placed in a calm and
tranquil position of life, and have embraced a sacred profession,
which rules and regulates the turbulent impulses of our nature; for I
feel a sort of expansion of mind and rejoicing of heart when
circumstances compel me to struggle with intricate and perilous
difficulties, and overcome stubborn and apparently insurmountable
obstacles, which might have led me, had I not been excluded from
mundane things, into the strife and toil and degrading greatness of
mere earthly ambition."

It is probable that he really believed what he said; for there is no
man who does not deceive himself more or less; and those who from
passion, or interest, or education, or any other evil inducement,
fall into the darkest errors, are those who are in most need of
self-deception. He thought deeply for a moment or two after he had
spoken, and there was a gloomy look of pride upon his countenance,
too, as if he even regretted that in which he pretended to rejoice: a
shadow from the fallen archangel's wing. But then again he roused
himself with a start, and said, in an ordinary and composed tone, "We
will talk over our old plans early to-morrow, Sir Arthur; you had
better now go to your conference."

"Not yet," said Sir Arthur, rising. "It is not to take place till
twelve. But we must rejoin those young men, or they may think our
prolonged absence strange." Thus saying, he led the way to the door,
and Filmer only detained him to add one sentence:--

"Remember," he said, "do not commit yourself!"




CHAPTER X.


The town of Barhampton--or rather, that town which it suits me so to
denominate--is one of no great importance in point of size, and of no
great commerce, for railroads have not yet reached it; and the nearest
point which had been attained by any of those strange contrivances for
hurrying man through life and through a country, lay at the distance
of nearly fifty miles at the time of which I speak. Nevertheless, it
was a sea-port; and had it been near the capital, near any important
town, or situated in a thickly-populated district, it possessed
several considerable advantages, which would have secured to it, in
all probability, an extensive and lucrative trade. It had a very nice
small harbour, for which man had done something and nature much. The
water was deep therein; and had there been room for one of the
unwieldy monsters of the deep, a three-decker might have lain at
anchor there with six fathom under her keel. But the harbour was very
small, and had a line-of-battle ship attempted it, her boom would
probably have knocked down the harbour-master's office at the end of
the little jetty, while her bowsprit entered the Lord Nelson
public-house by the windows of the first floor. Boats and coasters, of
from thirty to ninety tons, could come in at all times of tide, but
nothing larger was seen in the harbour of Barhampton.

Outside the harbour, however, in what was called the bay, especially
when the wind set strong from the southwest, a very different scene
was displayed, for there nature seemed to have laboured alone on a far
grander scale. Two high and rocky promontories, at some points about a
mile and a half apart, stretched forth from the general line of the
coast into the sea, like two gigantic piers. One, following the line
of the high ridge which crowned it, was nearly straight; the other
swept round in the arc of a large circle, projecting considerably
farther into the ocean than the other, but gradually approaching, in
its sweep, the opposite promontory; so that, at the entrance of this
magnificent bay, the passage was not more than half a mile in width.
Few winds, of all those to which mariners have given name, affected in
any great degree the deep still waters within that high and
mountainous circle; and there, when tempests were raging without,
might be seen riding, in calm security, the rich argosie and the
stately ship of war. No cargoes, however, were now disembarked at
Barhampton, except those of the small vessels which entered the
harbour, and which supplied the town and the neighbouring country with
a variety of miscellaneous articles of ordinary use.

Nevertheless, in former times, the town, it would appear, must have
been a place of some importance. Rising up the slopes of the hills,
from the brink of the harbour, its narrow, tortuous, ill-lighted,
unswept, and dilapidated-looking streets reached the summit of the
high ground, where a number of superior houses were to be found,
somewhat stately in appearance, antique in form, and cold and formal
in aspect, except, indeed, where a cheerful little garden interposed,
blushing with china-astres, dahlias, and other autumnal flowers. Yet
even these could not give it an air of life, or if they did at all, it
was an air of vegetable life. There was no movement, there was no
activity in it. It seemed as if everybody in the place was dead,
except a few men who had come in to bury the rest. Beyond these houses
of the better classes, as rich people are called, were some poorer
dwellings, descending the slope on the opposite side of the ridge; and
beyond these again, came the ancient walls of the town, built and
perfected when Barhampton was a place of strength.

The town had not, indeed, been dismantled even yet, but it had been
disarmed; and now, instead of large cannon, and soldiers 'bearded like
pard,' the broad ramparts displayed the nursery-maids and the little
children of the citizens flirting with apprentices, or peeping out of
empty embrasures; or, on the Sunday, the great mass of the inhabitants
of the town walking in gay attire, enjoying the fine air, and gazing
over the wide prospect. Round about, nearly in the shape of a
horse-shoe, from one point of the harbour to the other, enclosing the
whole city, if it could be so called, within their area, swept those
old walls, time-worn, and lichen-covered, and loaded with snapdragon.
No mason's trowel, no busy chisel, had been employed upon them for
more than two centuries, and the hard knocks of Oliver Cromwell's
cannon had left traces still unobliterated even by the equalizing hand
of time.

The external appearance of the place was not at all deceptive. The
march of improvement was not a quick march in Barhampton. In fact, in
the space of fifty years, but one improvement had been made in the
town, and the audacious and reforming mayor, who had sanctioned,
recommended, and successfully carried out this act of innovation, had
been held in execration ever since by a considerable portion of his
fellow-townsmen. The deed I speak of was the enlargement of the
High-street, and the giving it as near as possible a straightforward
direction. It would now admit two carriages, or even waggons, abreast
in every part; formerly only one could pass, except at particular
places, where a greater expansion had been purposely given to the
road, in order to prevent the comers up and goers down from jamming
each other together immovably. In previous times, also, this street
had pursued a sort of zigzag direction, which nearly doubled its
length, and this had evidently been done, not for the purpose of
avoiding the acclivities, but rather for that of finding them out; for
even in going down the hill, carriages had to mount as often, though
not so far at any one time, as they had to descend; and in coming up,
one rise seemed only to be overcome in order to go down and seek for
another.

The same innovating magistrate who had committed the heinous act of
straightening and widening the street, had expressed an antipathy to
the old town gates, and their heavy oaken doors, with portcullis and
draw-bridge; but the whole town rose as one man to resist his rash and
horrible proceedings. In vain he showed that more than one horse had
taken fright in going over the clattering, rickety, old bridge; in
vain he pointed out that a very respectable old lady had broken her
neck at the same spot, by a fall into the ditch. The people said that
the horses were mad and the lady drunk, to do such things; and the
mayor died, like all great patriots, before he saw his schemes for the
improvement of his native place carried into full accomplishment.

Thirty years had passed since the reign of this potentate, and a
change had come over the spirit of the people of Barhampton. There
were many great reformers in the place--men who sighed for a complete
change in all things--who stood up for the rights and liberties of the
people; who would have all men permitted to sell gin and cordial
compounds from any hour at which they chose to begin, to any hour at
which they chose to end; who corrected municipal abuses, and
castigated corrupt parish officers; who worried the mayor, tormented
the aldermen, bored the county magistrates and members of parliament,
abused the overseers, and set even the beadle at nought. But in the
mending of their ways they still forgot to mend the ways of the city:
that did not come under their notions of reform. They refused a
church-rate, and therefore could not be expected to vote a paving and
lighting rate. They objected to all taxes of all kinds, and most of
all they objected to tax themselves. They evaded imposts wherever they
could; paid grumblingly those they were compelled to pay; cheated the
customs by prescription, and the excise by cunning; and thought
themselves pure and immaculate if they only defrauded the state and
escaped the law. How often is it with men, that punishment rather than
crime is considered disgraceful!

But I must not moralize upon the little community of Barhampton.
Things went on increasing and prospering with the reformers. At first
they were moved apparently by nothing but the pure spirit of
innovation; but there were some men of more mind amongst them than the
rest; and having all agreed upon the necessity of great and sweeping
changes in church, state, and municipality, they proceeded to inquire
what sort of changes were desirable. They instructed themselves in
what other people demanded, and thus the reforming part of the
population divided itself into three distinct portions, consisting of
Whigs, Radicals, and Chartists. Amongst the former were some of the
most respectable and dullest men of the town: the Radicals comprised
the great body of the mob-ocracy. The Chartists were men of
enthusiastic temperaments, sincere and eager characters, and in many
instances, of considerable powers of mind. They saw great social
evils, magnified their extent by the force of imagination, and,
unaccustomed to any of the details of public business, perceived but
one remedy for the sickness of the state, and imagined that remedy to
be a panacea for all ills. Moral force was a good thing in their eyes,
but physical force they thought a better. They believed themselves
prepared for all contingencies; they imagined themselves ready to shed
their blood in support of that which they never doubted to be good;
they dreamed of the crown of martyrdom in their country's service;
and, in short, they were political fanatics, though not a small
portion of true patriotism lay at the bottom of their yearnings for
revolution. On most occasions the Radicals would join with them, and
therefore the Chartists looked upon them for the time as brothers; but
the union was not solid, and in more important matters still, the
Radicals were disposed to support the Whigs. This fact began to be
felt a little before the period at which my tale opens. The Chartists
imagined that they perceived a greater sympathy in many points between
themselves and the Tories, than between themselves and the Whigs; that
there was more real philanthropy, a greater wish to see the condition
of the lower classes materially improved, amongst persons of Tory
principle, than in any other class. But there were also fundamental
differences, which rendered perfect assimilation with them impossible,
and though they regarded the Tories with a kindly feeling, they could
not unite with them for any great object.

Such was briefly the state of the town, physical and moral, when the
carriage of Sir Arthur Adelon rolled through the gates, which had not
been closed for half a century; and a drag having been put on, it
began to descend slowly the principal street of the place. In that
principal street was situated the small inn called the Rose, which,
though there were numerous public-houses, was the only place which
kept post-horses, and honoured itself by the name of hotel. The
streets were miserably dark, and nearly deserted, and Sir Arthur
Adelon felt a little nervous and uneasy at the thought of what was
before him.

In the heat of blood and party strife, men will go boldly and
straight-forwardly towards objects pointed out by principles in their
own mind, and will seek those objects and assert those principles at
the risk of life and fortune, and all that makes life and fortune
desirable. But they proceed upon the same course with very different
feelings when, in calmness and tranquillity, after a long cessation of
turmoil and contest, they return to the same paths, even though their
general views may remain unchanged, and they may think their purposes
as laudable as ever.

Such was the case with Sir Arthur Adelon. Perhaps, if one looked
closely into his heart, and could see, not only what was in it at the
present moment, but what I may call the history of his sensations, we
should find that his having embraced the extreme views which he
entertained had originated in mortified vanity and an embittered
spirit. An early disappointment, acting upon a haughty and somewhat
vindictive temper, had soured his feelings towards society in general;
and when, shortly afterwards, he had met a check, by the refusal of a
peerage which he thought he had well merited, a bitter disgust
succeeded towards institutions in which he was excluded from the high
position he had coveted, and he became anxious to throw down other men
from a position which he could not attain. It was by no regular
process of reasoning from these premises that he arrived at the
extremely democratical opinions which he often loudly proclaimed; but
the events of his early life gave a general bias to his thoughts,
which led him step by step to the violent views which he announced in
two contested elections in Yorkshire; and at the present time, though
he had sunk into temporary apathy, his notions were not at all
moderated even by years and experience. He was not inclined, indeed,
to risk so much, or to engage in such rash enterprises, as he might
have done in the hasty days of youth; but the long-buried seeds were
still in his mind, and it only required warmth and cultivation to make
them spring up as green and fresh as ever. Nevertheless, he approached
discussions in which he felt he might be carried beyond the point
where prudence counselled him to stop, with a great degree of nervous
anxiety; and he almost hoped, as his carriage stopped at the inn door,
and no signs of waking life appeared but the solitary lamp over the
little portico, that some accident might have prevented the meeting.
The next instant, however, a light shone through the glass door, and a
waiter appearing, approached the step of the carriage, saying, "The
gentleman told me to tell you, Sir Arthur, that he would be back in a
few minutes."

The baronet bit his lip--there was now no escaping; and following the
waiter to a sitting-room, he ordered some sherry, and took two or
three glasses, but they did not raise his spirits. All was silent in
the town; not a sound was heard but the sighing of the breeze from the
bay, and a faint sort of roar, which might be the wind in the chimney,
or the breaking of t

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