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The Fate: A Tale of Stirring Times

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Title: The Fate: A Tale of Stirring Times

Author: G. P. R. James


        
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Language: English

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Transcriber's Notes:
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   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].






THE FATE:


A TALE OF STIRRING TIMES.


BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.,

AUTHOR OF
"THE COMMISSIONER," "HENRY SMEATON," "THE OLD OAK CHEST," "THE
WOODMAN," "GOWRIE," "RUSSELL," "THE FORGERY," "BEAUCHAMP,"
"RICHELIEU," "DARK SCENES OF HISTORY," &c., &c.



NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
PEARL STREET, FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1864.






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight
hundred and fifty-one, by

GEORGE P. R. JAMES,

in the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the Southern
District of New York.




PREFACE.


Change of scene I believe to be as invigorating to the mind as change
of air is to the body, refreshing the weary and exhausted powers, and
affording a stimulus which prompts to activity of thought. To a writer
of fiction, especially, the change may be necessary, not only on
account of the benefits to be derived by his own mind from the
invigorating effects of a new atmosphere, but also on account of the
fresh thoughts suggested by the different circumstances in which he is
placed.

We are curiously-constructed creatures, not unlike the mere brute
creation in many of our propensities; and the old adage, that "custom
is a second nature," is quite as applicable to the mind as to the
body. If we ride a horse along a road to which he is accustomed, he
will generally make a little struggle to stop at a house where his
master has been in the habit of calling, or to turn up a by-lane
through which he has frequently gone. The mind, too, especially of an
author, has its houses of call and by-lanes in plenty; and, so long as
it is in familiar scenes, it will have a strong hankering for its
accustomed roads and pleasant halting-places. Every object around us
is a sort of bough from which we gather our ideas; and it is very
well, now and then, to pluck the apples of another garden, of a flavor
different from our own.

Whether I have in any degree benefited by the change from one side of
the Atlantic to the other--a change much greater when morally than
when physically considered--it is not for me to say; but I trust that,
at all events, the work which is to follow these pages will not show
that I have in any degree or in any way suffered from my visit to and
residence in America. I have written it with interest in the
characters portrayed and the events detailed; and I humbly
desire--without even venturing to hope--that I may succeed in
communicating some portion of the same interest to my readers.

A good deal of laudatory matter has been written upon the
landscape-painting propensities of the author; and one reviewer,
writing in Blackwood's Magazine, has comprehended and pointed out what
has always been one of that author's especial objects in describing
mere scenes of inanimate nature. In the following pages I have
indulged very little in descriptions of this kind; but here, as every
where else, I have ever endeavored to treat the picture of any
particular place or scene with a reference to man's heart, or mind, or
fate--his thoughts, his feelings, his destiny--and to bring forth, as
it were, the latent sympathies between human and mere material nature.
There is, to my mind, a likeness (a shadowing forth--a symbolism) in
all the infinite variations which we see around us in the external
world, to the changeful ideas, sensations, sentiments--as infinite and
as varied--of the world of human life; and I can not think that the
scenes I have visited, or the sights that I have seen, in this
portion of the earth--the richness, the beauty, the grandeur, the
sublimity--can have been without influence upon myself; can have left
the pages of nature here a sealed book to one who has studied their
bright, mysterious characters so diligently in other lands.

Nay, more, I have met with much, in social life, well calculated to
expand the heart, as well as to elevate the mind, which I should be
ungrateful not to mention--kindness, hospitality, friendship, where I
had no claim, and enlightened intercourse with powerful minds, in
which I expected much, and found much more.

Sweet and ineffaceable impressions, ye can not have served to deaden
the feelings or to obscure the intellect!

I will rest, then, in hope that this work, the first which I have
commenced and completed in America, may not be worse than its many
literary brethren, and merely pray that it may be better. Let the
critics say, Amen!

G. P. R. JAMES.

_Stockbridge, Massachusetts_, 30_th July_, 1851.






THE FATE.




CHAPTER I.


There is no mistake more common among historians, no mistake more
mischievous, than to take for granted, without deduction, all the
statements of the satirists and splenetics of past-by ages as to the
manners and customs of their own times, and of the people with whom
they mingled. There are half a dozen, at least, of the pleasant little
passions of human nature which lead men, especially men of letters, to
decry their companions, their friends, and their neighbors--nay, even
their countrymen and their country. To say nothing of "envy, hatred,
malice, and all uncharitableness"--sins common enough to be wisely
prayed against--pride, vanity, and levity point the pen, direct the
words, or furnish forth a little drop of gall to every man who is
giving an account of the times in which he lives and the country in
which he dwells, for those who are living or to live at a distance of
space or time from himself. It is pleasant to place our own brightness
on a dark back-ground; and the all but universal propensity of mankind
to caricature derives an extraordinary zest in its exercise, when, by
rendering others around us contemptible or odious, we can bring out
our own characters in bolder relief. But there are other, perhaps even
meaner motives still, which induce men frequently to portray their own
times in broad and distorted sketches. The faculty of admiration is a
very rare one; the faculty of just appreciation a rarer one still; but
every one loves to laugh; every one feels himself elevated by the
contemplation of absurdities in others. There is a vain fondness for
the grotesque lurking in the bosoms of most men; and a consciousness
that sly or even gross satire, and delicate or coarse caricature, are
the best means of giving pleasure to the great mass of mankind, is
probably one reason why we find such depreciatory exaggeration in the
writings of all those who have given pictures of their own times. The
letters of Petrarch, the statements of Hollingshed, the pictures of
Hogarth, the romances of Smollett and Fielding, all furnish, it is
true, certain sketches of their own times from which we can derive
some valuable information, but so distorted by passion, by prejudice,
by a satirical spirit, or a love of the ridiculous, that the portrait
can be no more relied upon, in its details, than Bunbury's caricature
of a Cantab for the general appearance of Cambridge scholars.

To give such pictures is mischievous in itself; but I can not help
thinking that for an historian to follow them without allowance is
more mischievous still. If there be a deviation on either side--though
any deviation should be avoided, if possible--surely it would be
better for every moral object to paint the past more bright rather
than more foul, as the past alone contains the just objects of
imitation, though we may emulate contemporary virtue or aspire to
ideal perfection in the future.

Truth--plain, simple truth, with such reflections upon the verities of
the past as may tend to benefit mankind in the present and the future,
forms all that the historian can desire; but he might as well hope to
draw truth from the pages of the satirists of any age, as a future
portrait painter might represent Lord John Russell or Lord Brougham
from the caricatures in Punch, where a certain likeness is kept up,
but every peculiarity is exaggerated with the grossest extravagance.

I enter my caveat against the picture given of the state of England in
the year 1685 by Mr. Macaulay, in his great and fanciful historical
work, and especially against that part of it which refers to the
English country gentlemen of those times, and to the English country
clergy. That such men did exist as those from which he has drawn his
statement, there can be no doubt; that they did exist in a greater
proportion than at present, there can be no doubt either; but that the
great mass were such as he has represented, may be very safely denied.
Pickwicks, and Tupmans, and Winkles are full of truth; but society is
not made up of these; and the reign of Victoria would appear very ill
in history if, by misfortune, it should have for its future historian
one inclined to paint the state of England in 1850 from similar
sources to those which have been pressed into the service of Mr.
Macaulay.

Nor does his reasoning afford any support to his statements; for, when
important elements are left out of calculation, the result can never
be admitted. Thus, when he says, "A country gentleman who witnessed
the revolution was probably in receipt of about a fourth part of the
rent which his acres now yield to his posterity. He was, therefore, as
compared with his posterity, a poor man, and was generally under the
necessity of residing with little interruption on his estate." The
historian forgets to state what was the comparative value of money at
the period he speaks of, and therefore can not draw as a fair
inference from the amount of rent, that the country gentleman of those
days was condemned by poverty to perpetual seclusion in the country,
which is, in fact, what he attempts to show. The tastes, the habits of
a country gentleman of that period kept him probably more in the
country; but it was not poverty. Even in the eighteenth century, we
find gentlemen of an estate producing two thousand pounds a year
keeping a pack of hounds without burdening their property, and every
true picture of country life which has descended to us shows that the
country gentlemen in general lived more at their ease than the same
class in the present day, and were as numerous in proportion to the
population. If their enjoyments were not so refined, it was because
the age was not so refined; and though the picture of Squire Alworthy
may be a pleasing exaggeration on the one hand, that of Squire Western
is an unpleasant caricature on the other, while the truth lay between,
and a multitude of country gentlemen existed of a very fair degree of
polish, without all the refined virtues of the one or the brutal
coarseness of the other.




CHAPTER II.


On the borders of Lincolnshire stood an old building, which had
preserved the name given to it more than two centuries before, though
the purpose which had given significance and propriety to that name
had passed away. It was a long, tall edifice of stone, somewhat like
the body of a church, and, as if to give it more resemblance still to
a religious edifice, another building had been added to the end of the
first, a story higher, and having some resemblance to a tower. This
additional part was built of brick; but moss and lichen had reduced
both stone and brick to very nearly one color; for though, when viewed
nearer, a variety of hues were to be discovered in the cryptogamous
vegetation which covered the walls, at a distance the general tint was
a brownish gray. The windows in the longer portion of the building
were placed in pointed arches, somewhat rudely and carelessly
decorated; those in the taller and newer portion were, on the
contrary, generally square, with a stone label above them, though some
had that flattened arch peculiarly characteristic of the worst Tudor
architecture. The whole building was not very large, and it was clear,
at first sight, that the long portion was devoted to barns, stables,
cart-houses, &c., while the other was separated for human habitation.
At the distance of some sixty or seventy yards from the house, a long
triple row of old elms topped a high bank, affording nesting-place for
innumerable rooks; and a little, clear stream, not unconscious of
trout, ran babbling along, mixing its melody with the music of the
birds. A stone wall, breast high, and in some decay, encircled the
whole, with two large uncouth posts ornamented with fragments of urns,
giving entrance, unimpeded by any gate between them, to any one who
might wish to approach the front door of the dwelling-house. There
probably had been a gate there once, for some iron work on the posts
seemed to show that they had been intended to support something; but
if so, the gate had long been gone--made into pikes in the civil war
for aught I know.

The scene around this old house, when viewed from the top of the bank,
was desolate enough. A wide, fenny piece of uninclosed land stretched
out far toward the north and east, only interrupted at the distance of
some three miles by an undulating rise of woodland. But, nevertheless,
the coloring was often fine, especially on autumnal evenings, when the
moor assumed a solemn, intense blue tint, and the pools and distant
river gleamed like rubies in the rich light of the setting sun.

On the other side, behind the house, the country had a more cheerful
look, with some well-cultivated fields sloping up, as the land rose to
the west, and many a knoll and gentle wave, and scattered trees, with
a thicker wood beyond, while sweeping away southward were hedgerows
and a hamlet here and there, the tower of a village church, and the
chimneys of a distant manor-house.

Such was the aspect of the building and the scene around it; and now
let us say a word of its history and its name.

In former years, when Plantagenet was the royal name of England, when
popes were powerful in the land, and it was sinful to eat beef on
Friday, among the best fed and best taught people of the country were
the abbots and priors of the various monasteries, who somehow,
notwithstanding vigil, prayer, and fasting--nay, even occasionally
vows of voluntary poverty--got fat, prosperous, and wealthy. Large
domains had these good men, and productive fields, besides tithes and
dues of various sorts, which were usually paid in kind. As the abbot,
and the abbot's bailiff, and other officers made their little profit
upon the sale of such commodities as they did not consume; and as, in
a benevolent and Christian spirit, they took good heed to have
plentiful stores laid up to aid the people in time of scarcity, it was
requisite that they should be provided with barns and garners to
preserve the fruits of the earth which they received. These barns were
called granges, and very often had a small farm attached to them. The
masonry of the edifice was generally solid, and the style of the
architecture in some degree ecclesiastical. When the grange was built
near the abbey, it usually stood by itself, without any dwelling-house
attached; but when it was at a distance, on one of the abbey farms, as
was frequently the case, a good mansion for grieve or farmer was often
added by the care of the monks; and a farmer who had pretty daughters,
or brewed good beer, generally contrived to get very comfortably
accommodated.

The house I have been describing was still called The Grange, and such
as I have stated had been its original destination. The long building
had been the real grange or barn of a neighboring abbey; the taller
building had been added afterward for the convenience of the abbot's
bailiff. When the monasteries were suppressed by the arch plunderer
Henry VIII., we all know how many and how great were those who shared
in the pickings of the defunct fowl of Rome. The Grange and the farm
attached to it fell to the lot of a nobleman in the neighborhood,
together with much other valuable property. He bestowed it upon a
younger son; and from that younger son it had descended in unbroken
line to its present possessor. The fortunes of the house had varied
considerably; some had proved gamblers, some had been soldiers, some
had been profuse, some penurious, some had even made love matches, and
now the farm, and the house, and the family were all in a state not
very prosperous, not very disastrous, somewhere between decay and
preservation. It was lucky, indeed, that the owner thereof had but one
son; for, had he been blessed with as many babes as a curate, there
might have been some danger of a dearth in the pantry. As it was, he
could afford comforts--an occasional bottle even of claret. Punch was
a frequent accessory to digestion, and good sound ale, which would
have done honor to any Cambridge audit, was never wanting for a friend
or a poor man.

The owner of that house, however, was a man of a peculiar disposition,
which prevented him from enjoying as much as he might have done the
favorable position in which fate had placed him. I do not mean to say
that he was of a discontented mood, nor that he was precisely a
melancholy man. He was whimsical, somewhat cynical, and certain it is
he had always the art, though a good and kind man at heart, of
discovering the bad or ridiculous side of every thing. He was a
learned man withal, and could often fit an occasion with a quaint
quotation, often twisted considerably from its just application, but
always serving his own purpose very well. He had passed a long time at
the University, and gained odd habits and some distinction. He had
then suddenly married a very beautiful woman of good family and small
fortune. For her sake he determined to exert himself, to strive with
the crowd for honors and distinctions, to place her in the same
position in which his ancestors and hers had stood. For this purpose
he went to the bar, around which he had been indolently buzzing for
some time previous. He was engaged in one cause: circumstances favored
him; the senior counsel was taken ill; the weight, the responsibility
fell upon the junior, but with them the opportunity. He made a
brilliant speech, a powerful argument, carried the court and jury
along with him, and saved his client from fine and imprisonment.

Then came the heaviest blow of his life. His wife died and left him
with one infant. The law was thrown up; the object of ambition was
gone; all his old habits returned, more wrinkled and stiff than ever.
He retired to his small property at The Grange; and there he had lived
ever since, cultivating his acres and his oddities. But let us venture
within the old walls, and see the proprietor in his glory.

Mark the knocker as you pass, reader--that great truncheon of iron, I
mean, suspended by a ring surrounded by a marvelously cut plate of
steel, with a large boss at the lower part, just beneath the obtuse
end of the hammer. The door, too, is worth a look, with oak enough in
it to build a modern house. Then we come to a low passage, none of the
widest, and diminished in space by two chairs with tall backs, each
back having round rods or bars joining the two sides together,
ornamented with round, movable pieces of wood, which may be rattled
from side to side, and resemble exactly those upon the curious machine
with which in popular schools we teach the infant mind to count, now
that we have discarded nature's original numeration table furnished by
our own ten fingers. Between the chairs, in order not to leave space
for intruders to pass too readily, is a suit of complete armor,
somewhat rusty, while on the other side are three cuirasses and three
steel caps, with sundry pikes, swords, and gauntlets, arranged with
some taste and garnished with much dust and many cobwebs.

Now, take care! There is a step--not up, but down; for the floor is
made to accommodate the ground, not the ground leveled to accommodate
the floor. Then this small door on the left hand, with sundry names
and capital letters carved in it with a penknife, to prove the
universality of idle habits in all ages and countries, leads into the
room where we would be.

But, ere we enter, let us take a glance around.

Seated at a small table, near a fire, with one foot resting on the
massive carved brass dog's head which ornaments the end of the
andiron, at the imminent risk of burning the slipper, and with the
other drawn up under his chair--which, by-the-way, was as tall and
stiff-backed as a corporal of dragoons, and would have been a most
uncomfortable seat had it not been well cushioned and partially
covered with Genoa velvet--sat a gentleman of perhaps five-and-fifty
years of age. He wore his own gray hair, though wigs were even then
beginning to domineer over the crown, and the somewhat slovenly
easiness of his whole apparel forbade the supposition that he would
have ever consented to embarrass his cranium with a load of horsehair
only fitted to stew the brains of the wearer into an unintellectual
mass of jelly. He had upon his back a brocade dressing-gown, which
might have been handsome at some former epoch--say twenty years
before; but which, though not actually dirty, was faded, and though
not actually ragged, was patched. He wore stockings of gray thread,
and breeches of a chocolate color, and by some antipathy between the
waistband thereof and the fawn-colored silk waistcoat above, a large
portion of that part of his shirt which covered the pit of his stomach
was exposed to view; but then that shirt was of the very finest and
cleanest linen. Every man has somewhere a point of coxcombry about
him, and fine linen was his weak spot. The ruffles and the cravat were
of lawn, and white as snow.

On the table before him was a large candle, shedding its light upon an
open book; and ever and anon, as he read, he raised one finger and
rubbed a spot a little above the temple, which, by long labor of the
same kind, he had contrived to render quite bald.

The room was by no means a large one, and the ceiling was of black
oak, which rendered its appearance even smaller than the reality; but
the greater part of three sides was covered with book-cases, and an
immense number of curious and antiquated pieces of furniture
encumbered the floor. The chairs were of all sizes and all
descriptions then in use; the tables were as numerous and as
various as the chairs. The latter, moreover, were loaded with large
glass tankards, curious specimens of Delftware--some exceedingly
coarse in material and coloring, but remarkable in device or
ornament--richly-covered wooden-bound books, strange daggers, and
fragments of goldsmith's work, with one or two pieces of China and
enamel of great value, besides coins and small pictures inestimable in
the eyes of an antiquary. The large center-table was tolerably clear,
for supper-time was approaching, and on it he took his frugal evening
meal, although he had a dining-room on the other side of the passage,
furnished with the most remarkable simplicity, and paved with hard
flag-stones. It was enough for him, however, to be disturbed once a
day; and he visited what was called the eating hall no oftener.

This elderly gentleman, however, was not the only tenant of the room.
On the other side, as far as he could get from the fire--for the
evening, though in early spring, was by no means cold--sat the son of
the master of the house, a young man of about one-and-twenty years of
age. The father might have been pronounced a good-looking man, had he
taken any care of his personal appearance; but the son had inherited
his mother's beauty, with a more manly character; and although youth
was still very evident, though the mustache was scant and downy, and
the face fair and unwrinkled, there was a good deal of thoughtful
decision about the eyes, and a world of resolute firmness about the
mouth and chin.

He, too, was reading; and sometimes the book beneath his eyes excited
a smile, sometimes engaged his attention deeply, but more frequently
his mind seemed to wander from the page. He would fall into deep fits
of thought; he would play with a knife which lay beside him; but, more
often still, he raised his eyes, and fixed them anxiously,
thoughtfully upon his father's face. It seemed as if there was
something working in his mind to which he wished to give utterance,
and it was not long before he spoke; but let us reserve what followed
for another chapter. It affected too much the fate and the immediate
course of the personages before us to be treated briefly at the end of
a mere descriptive passage.




CHAPTER III.


The father looked up from his book, and closed it with a slap, saying,
"'Et tamen alter, si fecisset idem, caderet sub judice morum.' It is a
bad book, and if another had written it he would have been put in the
stocks or whipped at the cart's tail. But this man will get fame, and
honor, and wealth by it; not that I am affected by the 'tristitia de
bonis alienis.' Each man should rejoice when he sees a worthy neighbor
successful, even if he may detect some flaw or fault in his
performances, for envy is the basest and most destructive of passions.
'Nulla pestis humano generi pluris stetit;' but when one sees a man of
some ability direct all his efforts to produce that which can only
work evil to his fellow-creatures, gild vice, decorate folly, and
corroborate falsehood, and yet be lauded and rewarded, it does excite
anger, and produces a sad conviction of the unworthiness of our kind."

This was not a very auspicious commencement of the conversation to
which the young man was looking with some anxiety for an opening to
propound certain schemes and purposes of his own. Nevertheless, it was
some satisfaction to him that his father had left off reading, for
that was an occupation not to be interrupted; and he hastened to make
a reply, in hopes that some turn would afford the opportunity he
desired.

"Bad books are sometimes very useful, I think, sir," he said, with a
good-humored smile.

"Ever in paradoxes, Ralph!" said his father "how may they be useful,
boy?"

"By giving better men than their authors occasion to refute them,"
replied Ralph; "not that I mean to say"--he continued, knowing the
peculiar argumentative character of his father's mind--"that the mere
refutation would be sufficient, for that would leave matters just
where they were before" (his father waved his hand), "but because, in
the act of refutation, a thousand new arguments would be drawn forth
in favor of truth and right, which might not occur to the multitude if
no controversy ever elicited them."

"You have not put your case as strongly as you might have done,
Ralph," replied his father; "complete refutation would not absolutely
leave matters exactly where they were before. It is with a truth, with
a principle, as with a sword-blade: its strength can not be fully
known till it is tried. True, the strength, whatever it is, remains
the same, but to those who have to use it, the trial adds confidence.
It is not of half as much importance to be armed with a good sword as
to have one and know that it is good from having proved it. The
abstract truth of any proposition remains the same, whether it be
assailed and defended or not; but the question before us involves
another element, namely, the effect of the assault and defense upon
the minds of men; and therefore, as you say, books assailing truth may
sometimes be useful by calling forth a complete vindication of the
truth. But the man who writes them is equally culpable; for even were
we to admit that he might desire to establish truth more firmly by
calling forth a strong defense, he would fall into the offense of
promulgating falsehood with the knowledge that it was false, and truth
refuses to be served by deceit."

He paused for the moment, and his son carefully abstained from
furnishing new matter for subtle arguments, well knowing that his
father had no mercy upon hobby-horses.

At length the old gentleman laid his hand, smilingly, upon the tome,
saying, "I do not suppose that you intend to refute this work, Ralph:
first, because I imagine that you do not know what it is, and, next,
because I have remarked any thing but a vaulting ambition in you, my
dear boy; indeed, perhaps too little. Now,


    'Ambire semper stulta confidentia est,
     Ambire nunquam deses arrogantia est,'


as has been said, in not the sweetest Latin that ever flowed--"

"Your pardon, dear father," replied Ralph, "I am very ambitious; not,
indeed, of refuting the book of any author, living or dead; that I
leave to you, in every way fitted for the task, if falsehood be the
opponent. But anxious am I--most anxious, 'ambire palmam,' on the
great stage of human life. To speak straightforwardly, I have been
thinking for some time of asking your permission to go forth and try
my fortune on a wider stage. I think I have not done ill at Cambridge"
(the father nodded his head approvingly); "but yet none of the paths
which a collegiate life opens to a man have temptations for me, and I
would fain see whether I can not carve out one for myself."

"What, at the court?" asked the father, shaking his head; "Ralph,
Ralph, you forget the means, and know not half the expenses which a
court life requires even before the slightest advantage can be gained.
With the rich and the courtly, only the rich and the courtly find
favor. 'Sus sui, canis cani, bos bovi, et asinus asino, pulcherrimus
videtur.'"

"Oh no!" cried Ralph, "no courtly life for me, sir. Some powerful
friends I may need, but those I know you can procure me; for not only
they who are connected with you by blood, but they also who have had
the stronger bond of personal friendship with you in former years,
will assuredly value your recommendation too highly to slight your
son. As to means, the small sum I receive from my college, and a part
of what you were kind enough to allow me there, will be ample."

His father shook his head with a somewhat doubtful air, and asked,
"But if you should fail, Ralph?"

"I can but return here," said the young man, "and matters will be just
where they were before."

"You are fond of that phrase, Ralph," replied his father, "but you are
mistaken--all are mistaken who use it; nothing that has passed through
any change is ever the same as it was before. There is always
something gained or something lost. It will be so with you; and who
shall say, in all the various complexities of circumstance and
character, of accident and conduct, which life in the great world
implies, how the balance may incline when you visit this old dwelling
again."

He fell into deep thought after uttering the last words, and his son
would not disturb his revery; for the ice was broken, the first
announcement made, and he was very certain of gaining his point in the
end. Oh how eagerly did the youth long for the attainment of that
point! What was it that attracted him so strongly? No truant
disposition; no idle weariness of the spot where his ancestors had
dwelt; no gilded dreams of sport and pleasure; no overcolored picture
of the world's brightness. But it offered him hope; one small spark of
that sacred fire, the extinction of which is death. He felt within him
strong energies; he had proved somewhat severely his own abilities; he
had a great purpose before him, a strong passion to lead him, and all
he wanted was hope and opportunity. He dared not tell his father all
that was in his heart, for there is a cold mist about age in which the
flame of hope will hardly burn; and if prescience were equal to
experience, youth would never struggle on so far and overcome so much,
for want of sunshine on the way.

The father sat gazing thoughtfully into the fire; the son remained
with his head leaning on his hand, till both started at a sharp rap
upon the door of the house from the heavy iron knocker which I have
mentioned.

There was, indeed, no need of starting, for both knew they were to
have a visitor that night, to taste a bowl of punch and chat over the
affairs of the country round. But they had been so deeply involved in
personal feelings that they had forgotten the flight of time, and the
guest was upon them ere either was aware that the usual hour of his
visit on a Wednesday night was actually come.

The father buttoned up a portion of his waist coat, and drew on again
a slipper which, under the pressure of cogitation, he had kicked off
his foot. The son put straight several of the chairs, which somehow or
another had got into a state of confusion; and in the mean while was
heard a sound, such as might have proceeded from a seal new caught
scrambling about in the bottom of a boat, but which, in reality, was
caused by the movement through the passage of a short, fin-legged
maid-servant, eager to open the door without delay to his reverence
the parson, of whose weekly visitation she had been more mindful than
her master. Hardly two minutes elapsed after the stroke upon the outer
door when that of the little library opened, and not one visitor, but
two, presented themselves, and both bedecked with cassocks.

I can not but regret the rubbing of the face off the coin wherever I
see it in society. I love local color; I love class costume, though
not class interests, however they may be disguised. Every profession,
every calling, honorably exercised, is honorable, and there is nothing
so vain as the vanity, nothing so pitiful as the pride which would
conceal any external indication of a position we have no right to be
ashamed of occupying. The Norman peasant girl, in love with her
immemorial white cap, would feel herself degraded were you to dress
her head up in hat and feathers. The New Haven fish-wife has an honest
pride in her yellow petticoat. The doctor in former times could still
be known by red roquelaur and gold-headed cane; the divine by the
garments of his order. The soldier aped not the civilian, nor the
civilian the soldier; each ship carried its own colors, and could be
known by those that sailed by it. I see not those inconveniences of
the system, which have produced a change in our day. However, in the
times of which I write, each parson could be known by his clerical
garments; and both the two gentlemen who now entered were evidently
churchmen, though very different both in appearance and demeanor from
each other.

The first was a fat, rosy personage, in a bran new cassock, glossy and
black as a raven's wing. In personal appearance he was no mean
representative of the old friar, wanting, however, the shaven crown
and the bare feet. The glance he gave around the room had just such a
degree of strangeness in it as might imply that he was not a frequent
visitor there, though not altogether unknown.

The second was an older man, perhaps sixty years of age, tall, pale,
and thin, with garments well worn, yet whole and decent. His hands,
though they not unfrequently held the spade in his own garden, were
peculiarly fine and delicate, and his face had seemingly been very
handsome in early life.

Now, from the time of the suppression of monasteries and the
reformation of the Church of England under Henry VIII. (if reformation
that movement could be called which took place under the wife-slayer)
to the present day, some five or six complete revolutions have
occurred in the state and character of the clergy of Great Britain.
Those are now living who remember one or two. By a very natural
reaction, the fishing, and shooting, and hunting parson of the early
part of the nineteenth century, the man unmindful of all outward
observances, and very little careful of even the more solemn duties of
his calling, has given place either to the man of forms and
ceremonies, of surplices and genuflexions, of crosses and
candlesticks, or to the eager, laborious, anxious evangelical
minister, ever visiting the sick, attending to the school, or
frightening the wicked with vivid pictures of damnation, and
diversifying labors, almost too much in themselves for any one man,
with missionary meetings, propagation of the Gospel societies, and
tract and Bible distribution. The parson Trulliber (I know not if I
spell the name aright, as I have no books with me), the parson Adams,
the Vicar of Wakefield--although each certainly very much overdrawn,
if we consider them as representatives of a class--give us some idea
of the various phases of the clerical state in the last century; and
innumerable memoirs, histories, and essays show the real condition of
the clergy in the end of the seventeenth and beginning of the
eighteenth centuries. At none of these periods, be it however
remembered, was there not among the clergy of the day an infinite
difference, in manners, character, and condition, between different
individuals, according to circumstances. The man placed at a distance
from refined society, in some remote country parish, was apt to lose
the more polished manners acquired at college. This was especially the
case where, as sometimes happened, the shameful smallness of the
stipend compelled the parish priest or curate to eke out the means of
subsistence by hard manual labor. But even then it was not always the
case; and hands that have held the plow or dug the glebe have often,
washed and clean, during the evening hours, penned words of fire,
which have not only found their way to the hearts of men, kindling a
flame of pure religion in the breast, but have lighted the writer
himself on the road to high preferment.

Again, the chaplain of the lord or great landed proprietor, depending
upon his patron for advancement in the Church, and sometimes even for
his dinner, was often inclined to be subservient and lickspittle, to
undertake degrading and sometimes shameless offices, to forget the
dignity of his calling and the dignity of man. But this was merely
occasionally; and occasionally, also, you would find a chaplain as
stern and harsh as the most fierce reformer, keeping the whole
household in awe, and even reproving the faults of his lord himself.
These, however, were the extremes, and the general course lay between.
There you would find the domestic priest, plodding on quietly in his
duties, doing as much good as a not very zealous character could
accomplish, bearing the crosses of his situation meekly, and looking
forward to a better and a freer day when the long-expected living
should be bestowed.

All the coarse caricature daubing in the world can not alter the lines
of the picture left to us by the authentic records of those days, and,
though it may make the idle smile and the ignorant applaud, yet it
will not deceive those who are really conversant with the manners and
customs of other times.

Two clergymen of the seventeenth century are now before us, reader,
but they belong to neither extreme, and the difference between them,
though very great, only serves to show that even the middle ground
admitted of much variety. The first who entered advanced, after a
momentary look around him, directly toward the master of the house,
and took him by the hand with kindly warmth.

"Mr. Woodhall," he said, with the slightest possible touch on an Irish
accent, "I am delighted to see you again. It is full six months since
we last met, for I stayed behind my lord, being obliged to remain in
London on account of having to go to Dublin about some little affairs
of my own; my dear aunt having at length thought fit to take her
departure for the realms of bliss, when, faith, I thought she had put
off the journey altogether. She left me--God bless her!--a neat little
comfortable income of two hundred pounds English, a large China bowl,
and a pair of Tangier slippers. Heaven reward her, as I am sure it
should, for she never troubled it till she could not help it."

"I am glad to see you back, Mr. M'Feely," replied the master of the
house; "you have been much wanted to bless the venison up at the
hall."

"Oh, the currant-jelly does that mighty well without me," replied the
chaplain. "Mr. Ralph, I am right glad to see you. Alma Mater
abandoned, I hear. Done with the old lady, eh? Well, it must be so
with all fathers and mothers. Children will quit them, must quit them;
and there is no use of going cackling about like a hen after a brood
of young ducklings when first she sees them take to the water. Every
animal knows its own element, and will find it sooner or later. My
poor mother, rest her soul, was sadly afraid that I might fall into
the errors of popery, and yield to the seductions of the scarlet
woman; but, faith, I had no turn for vows of celibacy, and so I came
over to England to be out of harm's way. No, no, wedlock is an
honorable estate--especially when there is another estate to back it;
and as to being married to the Church, upon my soul and conscience I
never yet saw the church, be it stone or wood, that I would like to
marry any how."

While this part of the worthy gentleman's discourse was going on,
addressed to the son, the father had been welcoming his other guest,
the parson of the parish.

"Good evening, doctor, give you good evening," he said; "you have
caught me here, the lean and slippered pantaloon; but, good faith,
Ralph and I were so earnest in talk that I forgot how time went.
Nevertheless, 'tis well as it is. Conversation never walks so much at
ease as when slipshod; and we will scant ceremony to-night. Come, lay
aside your periwig, and we will have a bowl of punch anon."

We will pass over the brewing of the punch and the conversation which
sweetened it, whether that conversation turned upon the decline of
lemons, which the chaplain declared were not half as juicy as when he
was a boy, or upon the enormous price of sugar, which the good parson
mourned over sincerely. After the two first ladlefuls had passed
round, however, other more important topics were started; rumors from
London, tales from France, an epigram, a court ball, a passage of
Lucan, and a newly-discovered method of solving some very puzzled
questions connected with conic sections were all mentioned and
discussed.

Ralph Woodhall had no interest in any of these things. Of some he was
ignorant, of some he was tired; and at length he rose, saying he would
go out and take a walk for half an hour.

"To study the stars, Ralph?" said his father.

"Nay, to write a sonnet to the pale-faced moon," replied his son,
laughing, and away he went.

"The boy has lost his wits," said the Irish clergyman, "to leave such
a bowl as this, and such edifying conversation for a green lane and a
moonbeam. He must be melancholic."

"Indeed, he has been somewhat heavy and thoughtful of late," said the
father, "but he always loved these rural walks, visere sæpè amnes
nitidas."

"But not by darkness," replied the parson; "he was never a
night-walker."

"The lad's in love," exclaimed the Irishman; "that is the plain truth,
as sure as my name is M'Feely. You never see a lad of about twenty get
moping and walking by moonlight, looking into babbling brooks, or
sitting with his hat off under an elm-tree, but you may be sure that
he is infected with that sauntering, heigh-ho, lamentable idleness,
love, rightly called a passion, if passion means suffering, and as
rightly called a madness or a disease by some doctors, whether the
seat thereof be in the liver, or the midriff, or the brain, or the
heart."

"Hold, hold, doctor," exclaimed Mr. Woodhall; "pray make some
distinctions. There are various kinds of love: some honest, noble,
ennobling, others base, evil, and degrading. To say nothing of divine
love, holy love, and all kinds and descriptions of honest affection,
even the love of man for woman is often too pleasing and blessing to
be called a disease. It may perhaps be termed a sort of mental
titillation, which, when not extravagant or in excess, is agreeable
and even salutary. Many Eastern nations take the greatest delight in
being gently tickled; the Chinese enjoy having the soles of their feet
titillated either with the finger or a feather, and yet we know that,
carried to excess, the tickling of the feet has produced convulsion
and death. All depends upon moderation: every excess is evil, on
whichever side it be committed: nay, I hold that an excess of
abstinence is more sinful than an excess of indulgence, for the one is
a despising of God's good gifts, while the other is merely a
superfluous enjoyment of them. I can not but think that the saint who
stood on a pillar, and the anchorites of the Thebaid, were not only
great fools, but blasphemous fools; for, if they did not convey by
speech, they signified by action, a foul and false imputation upon the
character of the Deity, for which they deserved to be burned--if ever
any men did merit such a fate."

"But if your son be in love, who is the person with whom he is in
love?" asked the parson. "There is no one in the parish for whom I
think it at all likely that he should conceive such a passion."

"He is not in love at all," replied the father; "the truth is, my
reverend friend, he has conceived a strong desire to go forth and seek
his fortune in the world, and we were speaking of that very subject
when you came in. I had neither consented nor prohibited; and
probably, doubt--the most painful of all modes or conditions of the
mind--has made him wander forth to-night."

"The boy's in love!" grumbled Mr. M'Feely, authoritatively; "the boy's
in love! But as to sending him forth to seek his fortune, that is the
very best thing that can be done for him. It is the best remedy for
love in the world. He'll puff and sigh like an angry cub for the first
fortnight. Then he'll find there is something else to be done in life
than sigh. Then he'll struggle on, all for the loved one's sake! Then
he'll forget the loved one in the struggle. Then he'll find she has
forgotten him, and he'll console himself by saying, 'There are more
fish in the sea.' Bless your soul, Mr. Woodhall, when I left Ireland,
with what I could scrape together, to study at your University of
Oxford here, I was dying for love of no less than nine of the
prettiest girls in all the north of Ireland. Not one of them didn't
swear she would die a maid for my sake; and yet you see I'm a bachelor
over forty, and they are all matrons--some of them grandmothers, I
fancy."

"What do you say to it, my worthy friend Barry?" asked Mr. Woodhall,
addressing the parson. "I do not like to part with my son so soon
after his return from college; I do not like to throw a lad like that
upon the wide world without any decided prospect before him. Yet if it
be for his good, I will cast away parental fondness and parental
anxiety, and let him go."

"You will let him go in the end, Woodhall, whatever you determine
now," replied the clergyman, with a look of kindly meaning, "and it is
better to do that graciously which you will do eventually. Besides, I
think you will do right. The most important part of education is the
education of the world. Those who keep their children back from this
till they are themselves gone, leave them to receive the hard
instruction, without any one at hand to render it more easy. You have
given Ralph every preparation. His mind and his heart have been
cultivated highly. Let him go to receive the lessons of experience,
while you are still here to give aid in case of need."

"Well, he shall go," said Mr. Woodhall, with a sigh; "I have still
some friends left in the great world who will lend a helping hand, and
to them he shall have letters."

"I have but one," said Mr. Barry, "but he is a good and faithful one;
and Ralph must know him."

"Bless your soul, I will get him twenty letters from my lord in a
jiffy," exclaimed Dr. M'Feely; "the lad is a great favorite of his,
and I have nothing to do but to write them, and my lord will sign and
address them."

Thus was it determined that Ralph Woodhall should go forth to try the
world.




CHAPTER IV.

I mentioned the stream--surely I mentioned the stream. Oh dear, yes, I
certainly did, although, in the hurry of telling a story, one is
sometimes apt to forget small particulars. But I know I informed the
reader, in describing The Grange, that there was a small, pleasant
stream, not unconscious of trout, which wandered past the back of the
old house, and then, as if it had a peculiar affection for the place,
made a graceful turn round one of the sides, serving for a fence--even
if there had not been a dilapidated old wall there for that purpose.

It was a very beautiful little river, for it deserved a grander name
than rivulet, seeing that it was at that spot some twelve or fourteen
feet broad; and although the country to the north and east was flat,
yet a number of little hills and eminences, and a general sloping
tendency of the country to the south and west, from which it
descended, had contrived to give it a rapid and hurried motion, which
was accelerated by several miniature cascades and rapids. There were
trees growing by its side, too, and often overhanging it, canopying
its glistening waters with interlacing boughs, and green, shimmering
foliage. Sometimes they swept afar, leaving broad, open meadows, where
the angler might throw his fly with fearless sweep of arm; but
sometimes they crept close to the bank, so close that their great
brown rounded roots would obtrude from the rugged bank, mingling with
the mossy turf and oozy rock, and curl down into the stream with many
a twist and many an aperture, affording fit concealment for the hole
of the water-rat or otter.

On the left-hand bank, however, whether along green meadow or among
the dim, shadowy trees, close to the margin of the stream, and
following all its turns and windings, ran a broad, dry, well-kept
path; and as beautiful and pleasant a walk it furnished for any one
who loved quiet musing, or was studious of the tranquil face of
nature, as could well be found in the wide world. The very bounding,
rush, garrulous boyhood of the stream, as it rushed on, struggling
with the rocks and impediments in its way, overleaping some
difficulties, rushing round other obstacles, and still, in spite of
all, making its way onward, might furnish fancies to a poet and
thoughts to a philosopher. Then the view over some of the open fields,
often, indeed, broken with hedgerows, and often dotted with church
spire, and cottage, and farmhouse, but not unfrequently extending for
miles and miles away over blue fen and dusky moor, had something wide
and expansive in it, which seemed to open the heart and make the
breast heave more freely; and where the trees fringed the stream, the
eye could still wander far, for there was no thick wood, but a mere
belt of planting without undergrowth, leaving smooth banks and grassy
slopes between the old trunks and stems, over which the sight might
range along tracks of sunshine, and often catch a glimpse through the
green avenues of a far-extending distance beyond.

Oh! the homilies of nature, how they pour into the heart of those who
will hear them lessons of peace, tranquillity, and love, which might
well reform this harsh and jarring world if man would but study there.
The characters which man's hand traces, even if spared by the wearing
course of time, whether written on parchment or graved upon the rock,
pass from comprehension--become a riddle or a mystery. The learned
scrutinize, the bold or the wise interpret; but the interpretation is
denied, and the dead man's tongue becomes a matter of dispute and
contention to the living. But the wisdom of the page ever open before
our eyes is written in the universal language, and man has but to look
and read to find himself wiser, better, greater from the permitted
commune with a spirit above his own.

It was a fair and pleasant walk that path beside the stream--pleasant
in the early morning, when dew was upon the grass and flowers, and the
slant rays peeped under the green branches as if the first glance of
the day at the new world were timid and doubtful; pleasant at noon,
when the green boughs afforded shade, and the brief walk across the
meadow rendered the shade more grateful, and the fresh air from the
ever-moving stream more sweet; pleasant at evening, when the rosy
light tinctured leaf and moss, and blade of grass, and painted the old
trunks of trees, and sprinkled the foam with rubies. Pleasant also was
it, most pleasant, when the yellow moon was hanging high in air, and
her beams, weaving themselves with the shadowy branches, spread the
way with a net-work of black and silver. Then how the stream would
seem to dance, and gambol, and leap up, as if to meet the looks of the
Queen of Night; and how every little cascade and rapid would sport
with the shower of diamonds that fell upon it from on high!

Along that path, under the moonbeam, Ralph Woodhall took his way, with
slow and thoughtful pace, while the next step in his future course was
under discussion in his father's house. He paused at the first meadow
and looked up to the broad moon, and then moved on again, sometimes
gazing at the stream and drawing dreamy images from its flashing
waters, sometimes fixing his eyes upon the path and giving up his
whole mind to commune with his own thoughts. They were somewhat sad
and dark--at least the ground-work was so; but still a gleam of hope
stole through, and checkered with brightness the gloom of the untried
future. Onward he went for about half a mile. There the stream
approached the little village, yet it came not too near; but, sweeping
past the foot of the little rise on which it stood, left a single
field dotted with one clump of trees between its bank and the first
house. Ralph paused there and looked up at the church, and strange
fancies passed through his mind. They were like those embodied in
Schiller's song of the Bell, full of association, partly sad, partly
joyful. Oh! how many a scene, and himself an actor in them, all passed
pageant-like before his eyes during the brief moment that he spent
there--all life's great epochs--all their emblems--the cradle--the
bridal ring--the coffin.

He walked on musing. He came to a low wall, with a stile of hewn stone
and thick trees beyond; and passing over, he followed the path, still
running by the side of the stream. Through the trees the moonlight
could be seen resting upon the open, waving ground, with many a dell
and glade, and here and there a deer lifting up its antlered head at
the sound of a footfall. Presently another sort of light gleamed
between the branches, but more directly on his path--a redder, less
placid beam; and shortly after, a tall, irregular house was seen upon
a terrace, to the foot of which the path approached very close, with a
bright blaze coming forth from three casements on the lower story,
while a ray or two shone out of the lattices above.

The young man took a few steps aside to a spot where the trees
approached nearest to the house, but remained under their shade, and
gazed up at one particular casement with a look intent but sorrowful.
What might be his thoughts and feelings at that moment? What might
they not be? The ringing sound of merry laughter came from the
fully-lighted windows below. There were men there carousing jovially,
but their merriment had no music for his ear. Did he envy them? Oh no!
Perhaps he might think how strangely Fate shaped men's lots; perhaps
he might ask why he, in whose veins flowed the same blood as in some
of those rejoicing there within, who was conscious of as high a mind,
as bold and true a heart, should be placed in comparative poverty,
should be looked upon as in an inferior position, because his father's
great-grandfather, about a couple of centuries before, had chanced,
without his own consent, to be born a younger son. Yet he envied them
not; he coveted not aught that they possessed; nay, of all within
those walls, longed for but one thing; but for that how he did long!
He could not obtain it; and yet the only bar was the lack of that
which those revelers possessed. That thought added to the objects of
desire; but their wealth, their rank, their station were only coveted
as means--means to the great end and objects of all his heart's
desire.

Thoughts came in crowds; but still he fixed his eyes upon the lattice.
A shadow crossed it, and he said to himself, "She knows not I am
gazing here." Then, again, he said, with some bitterness, "If she did,
what would she care?" but the next moment added, "yet I wrong her; she
would care--she would grieve--perhaps she would come forth to cheer
me--at all events, to bid me farewell. Would I could let her know."

He was taking a step forward with some unfixed purpose in his mind,
when a small door at the side of the building, not far from the bright
casements, emitted a momentary light, which was instantly obscured
again. The next instant a figure--a woman's figure, passed along the
terrace, crossing the blaze from the hall, and Ralph advanced a step
or two; but he retreated as rapidly, for the figure turned suddenly
from the sound of the revelry, descended the steps of the terrace, and
approached the very path by which he had come.

Oh how his heart beat at that moment; hers, perhaps, might have
throbbed wildly had she known who was near. But it was quite still,
though somewhat busy, and she took her way on, paused for an instant
to look up at the sky where the moonbeams vailed the stars, and then
entered the path beneath the overhanging boughs. Ralph Woodhall took a
step forward; it fell upon some of the withered leaves of the last
year, and the sound startled her. She stopped suddenly; and, fearful
that she would turn and fly, he pronounced her name.

"Margaret," he said, "Margaret, be not afraid; it is Ralph. I am glad
you have come out, for they seem merry-making at the hall, and I did
not like to go in, though I longed to see you."

Margaret gave him her hand; and whose heart was beating then?

"They are making a terrible noise," she replied; "more than usual, I
think, though perhaps it may be that my head aches, and that makes
their mirth sound louder than at other times. I fancied that the cool
air would do me good, and therefore came out to stroll along by the
stream."

"I will guard you on your walk, Margaret," replied Ralph; "it may be
the last time I can do so for a long time to come."

"The last time!" said the young girl--for she could not be more than
seventeen or eighteen; "you are not going to leave us, Ralph!"

"Yes, indeed, for a time, dear Margaret," he replied; "I am going away
into the wide world to seek my fortune--at least I have asked my
father's leave to do so."

"Fortune!" said Margaret; in a musing tone, walking on slowly along
the path; "what can there be in fortune, that makes men sacrifice so
much to seek it?"

"Nothing in itself," replied Ralph, "but every thing as a means--to
me, at least, every thing."

"I see not why it should be more to you than to others," answered
Margaret; "why is it?"

"I will tell you in an instant," replied her companion; "here I am
hardly at home from college, when I wish to go away again, to part
from my father, and you, and all my friends. That is what you would
say, I know, dear Margaret. But if I stay at home, content with the
little that Fate has given me, without an effort to make it more, or
to win honor, and station, and renown, there must come a bitterer
parting still; I must see the one I love best in all the world leave
me for another home, not only deny me her presence, but deny me her
thoughts, bestow heart and hand upon another, and be to me almost as a
stranger."

Margaret trembled, but answered nothing, and Ralph went on: "Shall I
wait tamely, Margaret, and, without an effort, see all this come
rapidly; or shall I, with a strong heart, battle with Fortune, and try
to conquer her for the hope of her I love?"

"Oh, yes; go, go!" cried the girl, eagerly.

"I may not succeed, perhaps," continued Ralph; "all my efforts may
fail--it is very likely. I may have to endure the same pang, to
undergo the same loss, notwithstanding the utmost exertions--that is
in God's hand; but, at all events, I shall have one consolation--I
shall have striven, I shall have labored, I shall have done my part;
and you, Margaret, you will think better of me; you will remember me
and my disappointments with sorrow; you will pity, if you must not
love me."

"I shall always love you, Ralph," she replied, in perfect simplicity;
but then suddenly stopped, adding, with a deep sigh, "I speak
foolishly, I fear; but you will not misunderstand me."

"Margaret," he said, in a tone of deep feeling, "Margaret, we must
fully understand each other. I love you, Margaret; I shall always love
you; I shall never love any but you. Yet hear me, dear girl, and do
not tremble so," he continued, drawing her arm within his; "I seek to
bind you by no tie to one in whose dark fortunes it needs the eye of
eager love to see one spark or hope. I ask of you no promise to be
mine, for I know right well that in my present state it were well-nigh
madness for either you or me to dream of such a far-off bliss. I have
that madness, Margaret, for I still dare to hope; but I would not have
you share it, lest my own bitter disappointment should be doubled by
breaking your heart too. It is well for me to go, and leave you free
to act as your own heart may dictate or circumstances may impel; it is
well for me to go, and to seek with the energy which only love can
give for all those bright jewels of the world which are but too
estimable in the eyes of those in whose hands your destiny must lie.
So long as you are Margaret Woodhall, hope will live, exertion will
continue, and strength will be given me to struggle on; but should I
ever hear of you by another name, the light of life will have gone
out, and, as my father has done, I will sit down to fade in darkness."

"What shall I do? what shall I say?" murmured Margaret, as if speaking
to herself. "Oh, Ralph, if I could add to your hopes, if I could
strengthen your efforts, how gladly would I do it; but my fate is in
the hands of others. I have no right to promise any thing. And yet a
promise might strengthen me myself; it might give me vigor to resist,
should resistance be needful. Still, my father has been very kind to
me and to you. Ought we, Ralph--ought we to do or say any thing that
he would blame and condemn?"

"No--oh no," answered Ralph Woodhall, firmly; "I ask it not, Margaret.
I only ask, let me still hope. Keep your heart and hand for me as long
as may be, and though it may seem wild, rash, insane to dream that in
a few short years I may accomplish enough to lessen the disparity
between your state and mine, yet, so long as the beacon burns before
me, I will go on, let the road be ever so rough and perilous. These
are strange and stirring times, Margaret; changes come suddenly and
often; all men are struggling; let me struggle too; and if Margaret
will but bid me hope, my heart shall never fail."

Margaret laid her fair hand upon his, and, looking up in his face,
replied, "Hope, Ralph! hope--hope all--hope always. I too will hope,
and struggle likewise."

As she spoke the moonlight poured through the branches on her fair
face and lighted her beautiful eyes. The look and the words were too
much to be resisted. Ralph bent his head over her, and their lips met.

"Hark!" said Ralph, after a moment's trembling pause, "I hear
footsteps coming up the path. Let us turn back toward the hall."

"Yes, yes, let us turn back," said Margaret, unclasping his arms from
around her, yet gently, kindly; and then, as if she would not leave
him wholly comfortless, she added, in a low voice, as they walked
onward, "there is at least one thing I may promise, Ralph, I will not
plight my faith to another; I will not yield to any entreaty--nay, or
command--till I have given you notice, and allowed time sufficient for
you to come and deliver me from that which would be a thousand-fold
worse than death, if deliver me you can. But now let us be calm, for I
hear the steps coming quick behind us."

When those steps were nearer still, Margaret was more calm than her
lover, for such is woman's nature. Perhaps he had been less deeply
moved than she had been--he could not be more; but the stronger
spirit, like the deeper water, when once in motion, remains longer
agitated.

"Ah ha! Mister Ralph," said the voice of Doctor M'Feely behind them a
moment after, "upon my life and soul, this is my country's way of
taking a solitary ramble. You go out to walk alone with a companion,
eh? Why, fair Miss Margaret, does my lord know of your night roaming?"

"Quite well," replied Margaret, with very little sign of emotion; "I
often walk through the park in the moonlight, doctor, but do not often
have such good luck as to-night in meeting Ralph to keep me company.
Ralph loves books better than the moon, I fancy."

"He loves a pretty face wherever he can find it, I fancy, be it the
moon's or not," replied the chaplain.

"As to my solitary ramble, doctor," said Ralph, "I believed, when I
set out, it would be solitary enough; but I can not say it has been
less unpleasant for not being so."

"Ay, devil doubt you," said M'Feely to himself; "but moonlight walks
are pretty dangerous things, as I know to my cost; there was the widow
Macarthy--but no matter for that. The moon is considered a cold
planet, but, on my faith, I think she has a greater knack of scorching
than any sun I ever saw."

All this was uttered in an under tone, so that no distinct sense was
conveyed to the two by whose side he now walked. It was evident,
however, that his suspicions were excited, and Ralph, somewhat
impetuous in disposition, and ever ready to confront a danger, asked
boldly, "What are you talking to yourself about, doctor?"

"Oh, nothing at all, but some of the queer freaks of nature, my boy,"
replied the other; and Margaret interposed, saying, "Ralph has been
telling me of a queer freak of his, doctor. He says he is going to
travel, and leave us all here in this dull place. He has not been home
from college a month, and is weary of us already. Can not you persuade
him to stay a little, if but for civility's sake?"

"By my conscience, but that is the last thing I shall do," replied
Doctor M'Feely; "it is the best thing for him to go and see the world,
and may be just as well for other people too. No, no, I have promised
the old gentleman to get my lord, your father, to give him letters to
all the great folks he knows, who may help him on in life, and the
sooner they are given the better."

"Well, I do not know what I shall do when he is gone," said Margaret,
following unconsciously a policy almost instinctive in woman's heart,
and showing a portion in order to conceal the whole; "I shall have no
one to talk to but you, doctor, and no one to draw me out of the river
if I fall in, as Ralph did when I was a little girl, for you would
never wet your cassock for my sake."

"Wouldn't I, though, darling?" cried the jolly priest; "I can help you
at a pinch, and will, depend upon it; and as to conversation, mine
will do you a world more good than that of any young scape-grace in
the land. But now, as to asking my lord about these letters, can it be
done to-night? is he in a fit state to be talked to, Mistress
Margaret? There was an array of bottles on the table when I left, and
the Bordeaux was none of the worst."

"Fit to be talked to!" cried Margaret; "fy, doctor, to be sure he is.
Would you have me tell papa that you think he gets tipsy every night?"

"No, no! For Heaven's sake not such a word, or there goes the living!"
cried Doctor M'Feely. "Oh, you little fox, so you have turned the
tables upon me! Well, you shall see how discreet I can be, and you be
discreet also, and don't say a word. We'll keep one another's counsel;
and mind, my darling, when you have an opportunity, speak a good word
for me about the living. I have been ten years in the house--ever
since you were a little thing not up to my knee--and not a benefice
has been offered me but that horrid marshy hole of Agueborough cum
Flushing-gap, where I should have had to read prayers to
yellow-bellied frogs, and preach to the seamews. I shall never be a
bishop at this rate, and I am resolved to comfort my arms in lawn if
it be possible. But now we are coming near. You trot up to your own
room, Mistress Margaret, and I and Ralph will go in; then the old lord
will never be a bit the wiser as to your moonlight rambles."

"On the contrary, I shall go straight in," said Margaret, boldly,
"that is to say, if all these drunken sots are gone, and will ask my
father for the letters for Ralph myself. You are altogether mistaken,
my reverend friend, if you suppose that I care about my father knowing
where I have been, or that I met Ralph accidentally. Only take care
not to put any wrong construction upon my walk, doctor," she added, in
a warning tone; "for the plain truth, I fear not."

When they reached the house, however, it was found that the party in
the Hall had not yet broken up, and the sounds that issued forth
warned Margaret that it was no scene for her to appear in. Doctor
M'Feely judged, also, that his presence would not be acceptable, and
the three parted at the door. It can not be said that Ralph's fingers
did not press more warmly on Margaret's hand than on that of the
chaplain as he bade them severally adieu.




CHAPTER V.


It was too much for the warmth of those lovers' hearts to part in the
cold, frozen solitude of even the little world around them. The many
makes a solitude for the few. No prison walls are harder, sterner; no
fetters more rigid, more binding; no penitentiary cell more silent,
more solitary, than the wall of hard human faces, than the fetters of
conventional forms, than the dull, hemming in, unresponsive circle of
an unsympathizing crowd for hearts that feel together, and would speak
to the ears that can comprehend.

They could not bear it; they risked all for the sake of pouring
out the thoughts of each bosom to the other; and on one bright
morning, the day before Ralph's departure over the brown heaths and
moors--Heaven knows how they found the opportunity; they hardly knew
themselves: it was the impulse of the moment--fortune favored; the
skies winked at the lovers' wish, and there they were. No eye, it
would seem, perceived their going forth; none whom they knew met them
in the lonely lane; and once in the wild commons, they were but a
speck upon the wide extent.

They heard the cry of dogs afar. They saw hounds and mounted horsemen
sweep over the distant hill. They felt little alarm; for so broad was
the expanse, that it would have required long calculations to discover
how many chances there were to one that the hunt would not come within
seeing distance of themselves. Sometimes they walked on together;
sometimes they sat side by side on the dry sandy bank. Margaret's hand
rested in Ralph's, and their eyes looked into each others'.

"You will not forget me, Margaret, among all the gay, and proud, and
high who throng your father's dwelling?"

"Can I forget myself, Ralph, and all the memories of which my
existence is made up? But will you not forget me? You are going forth
from me into a giddy world, where all is new and untried to you; where
thousands of sights, and feelings, and hopes, and passions, and
efforts, and changes, may well wipe away Margaret's image from your
heart."

"Do you believe it, Margaret? Do you think that in aught I meet with I
shall ever forget for one moment the object of my going forth? What
will be to me all that the world can give or show--what haughty
grandeur--what supple flattery--what upstart wealth--what official
insolence--what eager, hasty business--what cunning policy and low
cabal--what lordly halls and crowded courts, and glittering gems, and
eager strife, without the hope, the one bright leading hope, which,
like the mariner's star, may lead me away but to guide me surely home
again? Oh no, these things form but the waves of a sea through which
my bark must steer; but if they once break in, then I am wrecked
indeed. Would, dear Margaret, while I am gone, that you could see
every thought and feeling of my heart--behold, as in a glass, every
act in which I am engaged."

Margaret mused. "Would we could both know the future," she said, "at
least as far as our own fate is concerned; would we could see how all
this will end. They tell me there is a man lives yonder, down by those
few scattered houses on the moor, who can read horoscopes, and tell by
various means the destiny of those who will consult him freely. What
think you, Ralph," she asked, with a laugh and a blush; "shall we go
and ask him our fate? What if he were to say you would prove untrue,
and love some fair lady of the court, and forget Margaret? Are you
afraid to inquire?"

"Not in the least," he replied; "for I should give no weight to his
words, Margaret, whatever he said. The stars tell us of God's might,
and every thing throughout nature of his love and bounty; but man's
fate is a sealed book, which no stars, nor aught else in the great
creation, can aid us in reading. Had the Almighty ever designed that
the destiny even of the next coming hour should be known to us, he
would have given us clear means of learning it; for the same Being who
has taught us all that is necessary for us to know for our conduct
here below, and for our salvation hereafter, would not have left us
ignorant of any thing that could be beneficial to us to comprehend in
our after destiny. However, I have no fear, so let us go."

It may be a question whether Ralph really felt the full amount of
skepticism in regard to arts, which obtained almost universal credence
in those days, which he assumed. Reason is a fine thing; but alas for
poor human nature! reason but too often fails to convince. There would
seem to be intuitive convictions, against which argument the most
logical fails to operate. Ralph had a thousand times pondered and
discussed with himself all the points of superstition that affected
the age in which he lived. He had proved to his own satisfaction that
the calculations of the astrologer, and all the terrors of
supernatural visitants, were either impostures or dreams--to his own
satisfaction, I have said, but not to his own conviction, and the two
are very distinct. However, he did not suffer the lingering feelings
of unwilling belief, in that which his reason rejected, ever to affect
him in his conduct, and he again expressed his willingness to go.

Margaret, on the other hand, had never argued the question with
herself at all. Not that she gave full credence to all the wilder and
grosser superstitions of the day; for a mind naturally strong and
bright had guarded her against much, though not against all. She had
heard with horror and indignation of the trial, condemnation, and
execution of some unfortunate persons for witchcraft not very long
before the period of which I speak; but yet, when we remember that Sir
Thomas Brown himself, the great reformer of "vulgar errors," could not
free his mind entirely from the superstitions of his day, it was not
to be expected that a young girl of Margaret's age should be entirely
devoid of them.

She went on, then, with her lover, with more faith in the experiment
they were about to make, and of course with more eagerness also; but,
at the same time, her fears and agitation were naturally greater
likewise, and before they had taken a hundred steps she almost
regretted having made the proposal. Curiosity, however, was stronger
than apprehension--perhaps I might say, hope was stronger; for
undoubtedly one great motive of the inquiry she was about to make was
to strengthen her own heart in the coming hours of trial by the
assurances of after happiness which she fondly trusted to receive.

The scene around as they advanced, and the way that they took, were
well calculated to impress the mind with that feeling of awe which was
a good preparation for that which was to follow. The base of all
superstition is awe at the thought of some great unknown thing, and
whatever tends to impress the mind with grand and solemn fancies
naturally aids in that direction. I never saw the cause of
superstitious fears, so universal in the mind of man, clearly and
rightly reasoned but once, and that was in the work of an American
writer less generally known, at least in England, than he ought to be.
He makes one of his characters speak as follows: "Fear is not
cowardice. You may encounter unmoved the greatest danger that can
threaten you, as death in any shape, and yet be frightened at a trifle
merely because its exact magnitude is unknown to you. And this
convinces me that there is something somewhere in the universe more
terrible than death, or any ill that we know of, or whence comes this
all-pervading instinct of fear, which begins in the cradle, and
follows us to the grave? There is some undeveloped cause of fear
somewhere, some terrible evil which the imaginations of men have not
been able to find a shape for."

Any thing that strikes the mind and produces sensations of awe, even
of sublimity or grandeur, has a powerful effect in rousing up all that
is superstitious in our nature, and the scene through which the two
wandered on was well calculated to have that effect. I know nothing
more solemn and impressive than a wide, far-extended, uncultivated
moor upon a dim day, when no bright gleams of sunshine diversify the
expanse with catches of golden light, when the sky above is all gray,
and the eye rests upon nothing but long lines of brown and purple
heath, like a broad, desolate ocean spreading every where around. Such
was the scene which presented itself to the eyes of Ralph and Margaret
ere they had gone a quarter of a mile. The undulations of the ground
had by that time hidden the plowed fields and meadows around. The
Grange, the hedgerows, and tall trees were no longer seen; the church,
and the village, and her father's hall were shut out from sight, and
the only part to be discovered of the higher country to the south and
west was a dark, greenish-black line of hill covered with somber wood.
The small, scattered houses toward which they wended their way, and
which were to be seen distinctly when they stood upon the upland, were
now lost to the view; and not a trace of man's habitation or his
industrious hand greeted the eye to relieve the prospect from its air
of utter desolation. Even the path--if path it could be called--which
they followed to arrive at their object, showed none of the rich
coloring which could relieve the general somber tints of the view;
but, formed of the dark gray sand of a peaty soil, harmonized well
with, but enlivened not at all, the black and swampy ground that lay
on either side. Here and there a pool lay glistening upon the moor,
but the effect was not cheerful, for it reflected nothing but the gray
sky above; and round the edge, where the grass and heath had rotted
under the action of the water, the dark tangled roots and dull brown
moss, ragged and tufted, gave a more dreary look to the ground.

The distance was greater than Margaret had supposed; for the
cottagers, who were, in reality, intruders on another man's land, had
taken care to build at some distance from the cultivated ground, not,
indeed, in the hope of escaping observation, but in order to render it
not worth while to dispossess them. The solitary man, too, who had
established himself at no great distance from them, was not inclined
to court the proximity of the gay general world, and he had planted
his dwelling even some four or five hundred yards further in the moor
than the cottagers themselves.

Thus the walk was nearly two miles in length, and the ever-recurring
sameness of the view--its vastness--its desolation--sunk more and more
heavily upon Margaret's spirits as she and her lover walked slowly on
over the numerous slopes of ground, where the prospect was only varied
by a different arrangement of the same monotonous materials and hues;
and she literally trembled as she approached the lonely dwelling,
where, she more than half believed, her future fate might be made
known to her.

The house itself was a sad and solemn looking one; not a mere clay
hovel, like those which had been passed before, but a tall dwelling of
rough stone, with a perpendicular row of four windows, and two low and
narrow doors. It had evidently been built a long time, for moss and
lichen clung about it, and a thick stem of ivy rose at one corner, and
sent out its matted foliage of dark green over the greater part of two
sides of the building. It might have been a tower, erected in times of
trouble for watching the fens; and if a lodge in a garden of cucumbers
afforded to a Hebrew a good image of desolation, an Englishman could
conceive no habitation much more gloomy and dreary than a solitary
stone house in the midst of the marshes of Lincolnshire. In one
respect it had the advantage over the little hamlet situated near. It
was placed upon the top of the highest elevation of the low grounds,
probably for the purpose of descrying afar off any object that moved
across the fens. It was on a little mound, rising about some twenty
feet above the general level of the moor, and, consequently, the
situation was drier and more secure than could have been found any
where else in the neighborhood. But still it looked damp, and cold,
and miserable enough.

At the door which the two young people approached hung a large bell,
and laying his hand upon the pulley, Ralph drew it sharply down. It
gave forth a dull, melancholy sound, which made Margaret start. No one
appeared, however, at the door, although they waited for several
minutes in expectation. At the end of that time Ralph rang again, but
still no one appeared, and at length he lifted the latch and opened
the door. As he did so, he saw the foot of a tall stone stair-case
before him, and at the same moment a loud, deep voice called from
above, "Come up!"

When the young man turned toward Margaret, he saw that her blooming
cheek had become very pale, and that she was evidently much agitated.

"Shall we go on, dearest Margaret?" he said, taking her hand tenderly
in his.

"Oh yes, yes, let us go on now," replied Margaret, in a low voice;
"perhaps if I had known I should be so frightened I might not have
asked this, but I will not turn back now."

"There is no occasion for alarm, dear girl," rejoined Ralph; "I will
go first; but let me have your hand, Margaret;" and thus, hand in
hand, they ascended the long stair-case, while the voice from above
repeated, in a tone of command, the words "Come up!"

They passed two doors, one at the top of the first, and one at the top
of the second flight of steps; but Ralph judged that the voice sounded
from a place higher up still, and went on. The stair-case was very
dark, only illuminated by a narrow loop-hole here and there; but in
the middle of the third flight a brighter light began to shine upon
the steps, and Margaret detained her lover for a moment to recover
breath and courage, saying, "Stay a moment, Ralph. Let me stop my
heart from beating so;" then, after a short pause, she added, "Now let
us go on; I am ready."




CHAPTER VI.


At the top of the stairs there was an open door, from which what light
there was in the sky streamed out upon the landing-place, upon the old
oaken bannister which guarded the descent, and upon one half of the
flight of steps to the floor below. This light was so bright, so
clear, compared with that upon the common, especially when separated
from it by the darkness of the stair-case, that Margaret and Ralph
both thought for a moment that the clouds had cleared away, and that
the sunshine was streaming through some window that they could not
see. Such is the common effect of mounting to a high point when the
atmosphere is very thick; but these two young people had never
experienced it before, and they were surprised when they found, on
looking up, that, through what they termed a window in the roof--in
other words, a sky-light--the sky appeared as gray and clouded as
ever. Now these sky-lights are supposed by many to have been unknown
at the period I speak of, and the vanity of modern discovery leads men
to believe that many things are new inventions which were as well
known to our ancestors as to ourselves. It is the general introduction
of comforts and conveniences that is slow; the discovery of them is
often made centuries before they are applied.

There was a regular sky-light, with a small portion giving light to
the top steps, while the larger part served to illumine the room
beyond, the door of which was open.

The interior of the room was visible entirely to the eyes of Margaret
and Ralph as they ascended, and very different was it from that of the
learned Doctor Sidrophel, as described by Butler. It was nearly
destitute of furniture. There were two chairs and one table, formed of
old hard oak, upon which stood a telescope, pointing toward the
sky-light I have mentioned. Beside it lay a number of mathematical
instruments, and an enormous number of pieces of paper, or card, on
which were inscribed an infinite quantity of lines and figures, only
understood by the initiated. There were no stuffed beasts in the room,
no skin of alligator or large lizard; but upon a board at the side
were inscribed with a piece of chalk innumerable inscriptions and
strange figures, which Margaret did not at all comprehend. Near the
table--the only table which was to be seen--stood the master of the
house, dressed in long black garments, with boots of yellow morocco
leather. In short, his whole dress was singular, and at once denoted
the profession of an astrologer. It was not gaudy, nor in bad taste.
It seemed not as if he thought to proclaim his pretensions, but merely
adopted a peculiar garb for his own convenience. His figure and
appearance were impressive. He was a tall, powerful man of more than
six feet in height, and unbowed by the weight of years, although many
must have rolled over that tall, smooth brow, and the bald crown
above. The hair on the temples and back of the head was as white as
driven snow; but the eyebrows were still black as night, and but few
wrinkles appeared in the soft, smooth skin, which was as fair and soft
as that of any lady in the land.

At the moment when the lovers approached the door of the room, he was
looking anxiously at some papers in his hand, and he seemed wholly
engrossed by the subject of the moment. He moved not from the position
in which he stood, but simply repeated once or twice the words "Come
up!" and it was not until Margaret and Ralph had been some moments in
the room that he moved his eyes to ascertain who were his visitors. At
length he fixed a keen and eager glance upon them, and asked, in no
very gentle tone, "What brings you here, young people? Come you to
seek information of the past, or the present, or the future? I can
tell you either, and will tell you; for I know you too well to fancy
that it is some lost spoon, or strayed sheep, or any idle nothing of
village life which brings you here, as so many are brought, to inquire
of the _wise man_, whom they only think wise because he is different
from themselves in their own foolishness."

He spoke in a somewhat sneering manner, and Ralph answered in a calm
but bold one, "We have heard, sir," he said, "that you have studied
deeply sciences of which we know nothing, and that you are capable of
giving us information, or at least believe so, regarding our future
fate. But you seem to know who and what we are already, and now we
desire to hear, not what may be judged or fancied from the
probabilities of our existing situation, but rather that which is
indicated by science and calculation."

"You are a scholar, sir," said the astrologer, looking at him from
head to foot, "and doubtless hold in contempt the things which other
ages venerated. It is the mood of young scholars; but it matters not.
I do know you both well. I know you from the cradle until now. The
past, the present, and the future, as it regards you, are all before
me. I knew when you would come here, and that was why I told you to
come up, though I am not willing to be interrupted in my studies at
this hour. Now, Ralph Woodhall, what would you that I should tell you?
and you, Mistress Margaret, what is it you desire of me? Would you
fair dreams and specious promises, visions of bright and golden
happiness, love and enjoyment, long life, and a good old age? You will
have none such from me. Do you wish to hear the truth, or do you not?
Are you bold enough, fearless enough, to look upon the future with an
unwinking eye, and shape your course accordingly?"

"I am," replied Margaret, in a firmer tone than might have been
expected from her previous agitation; "it is for that I come. Say,
Ralph, is it not better that we should know what is in store for us,
than go on in doubt and uncertainty?"

Ralph was silent. There was something so impressive in the old man's
mariner, a strong conviction, so clear in his own mind, that some
belief was compelled; and yet the youth did not wish to acknowledge
that he placed any reliance on the other's pretended science. The
pride of argument and reason was against it; and he paused so long
that the other went on with a somewhat angry frown.

"You are incredulous," he said, "or would seem so. Happily for you,
belief or unbelief can not affect in any degree the immutable decree
of Fate. Now mark me. I need not the day and hour of your birth. I
know them both right well, and I will tell you broadly that which is
coming. To you, lady, in the first place, let me say the little I have
to say. Be true; be cautious; persevere! Strive not in any degree to
resist what seems impending over you. Yield to it, without a pledge;
but keep your troth pure and unsullied at the last, and you shall
still be happy."

"But not without him," exclaimed Margaret, laying her hand upon
Ralph's arm, and looking up in the old man's face eagerly, "not
without him, or it can not be true happiness."

The cloud passed away from the old man's brow, and he looked at her
with a smile the most sweet and benignant. "Truth will always make
happiness," he said; "without truth there can be none. You know how
you are plighted to each other. Be true to each other, and you shall
be happy; but it will not be without sorrow, and trial, and
difficulty. Now to you, young gentleman, I will speak. You are full of
vain hopes and expectations; love makes you ambitious; and I tell you
that you shall see one bright prospect fade away after another, and
hopes extinguished as soon as they are born. You shall struggle on
against hope, and meet with disappointment after disappointment. This
is your course. Lo, I have told you!"

He paused for a moment, gazing fixedly upon the countenance of Ralph
Woodhall, and then added, in a lower tone, "But persevere; be true,
and be happy in the end. In the moment when you least expect it--by
the means you least foresaw--your fate shall be worked out, and your
success accomplished. But hark! there are others coming who must not
find you here. Get you into this other room; keep you as still as
death, and wait till they are gone."

Thus saying, he opened a door in the wainscot, disclosing a small
chamber, utterly without furniture, and with one little window looking
out upon the moor. There was a sound of horses' feet, and people
speaking below; and the moment after the great bell rang, scaring
Margaret and her lover into their place of concealment with very
hurried steps. The voice of the old man was then heard, calling from
the top of the stairs, in his loud, sonorous tones, "Come up!" and the
instant after, another tongue was heard, shouting, "Where the fiend
are you? Do you hide yourself in the attic? Truth they say lies in a
well, and wisdom, it seems, at the top of the house."

"Wisdom and truth are not so far separate," said the old man, speaking
rather to himself than to the other.

At the same moment, Margaret, who had been leaning on Ralph's arm,
took a step forward, and shot a heavy bolt that was upon the door into
the staple; and then, raising her beautiful lips toward her lover's
ear till the sweet breath fanned his cheek, she whispered, "It is the
voice of Robert Woodhall, your cousin and mine, Ralph, though nearer
akin to you than to me."

"Little akin in kindness," replied the other, in the same low tone; "I
have not seen him for seven or eight years, so I may well forget his
voice. His haughty, imperious mother treated me so ill, and abused me
so much when last I was at the castle, that I will never go again."

Margaret laid her finger on her lips, terrified lest their retreat
should be disclosed by any sound; for steps were now heard coming fast
up the stairs, and there seemed to be more than one visitor
approaching. The next instant a voice sounded in the neighboring room,
which both Margaret and Ralph knew well, for it was that of her own
brother; and though it was more civil in its tone than that of the
first who spoke, there was a great deal of that rough levity in the
words, which was much affected by the young and dashing nobility of
the day.

"Good-morning to you, Moraber," he said; "I have brought my cousin
here, Lord Coldenham's son; or, rather, as I should say, Lord
Coldenham's brother. We want to see which way the hunt has taken. I
tell him you are a wise man, and he says to me nay, for that no wise
man would live in this moor."

"Fools might be made judges of wise men, and yet not much hanging done
in the land," replied the person he called Moraber; "not for want of
folly enough in the judges, but for want of wise men to be judged."

"Come, Master Moraber, or whatever is your name," said the voice of
Robert Woodhall, "show us a trick of your art. What in the fiend's
name is this you have got on the table?"

"Something that you can not understand," replied the other; "an
instrument that makes me see things that you can not see. What are you
holding out your hands for? Do you suppose that I practice chiromancy?
or do you come hither for the purpose of insult? If so, beware of your
neck; for that window is high, and you may have a speedy path to the
bottom."

"No, I don't come to insult you," replied the voice of the other, in
somewhat craven tones; "how the devil should I know how you tell
people's fortunes?"

"If you want palmistry, go to the Egyptians; I deal not with such
trash. The luminous influences which rule the destinies of mankind,
and which have been read with truth and certainty, from the days of
the Chaldean sages down to this present hour, are the letters of the
book I study. If you wish to know any thing that they may say
regarding your fate, put your questions and I will answer them; for I
have the horoscope of every man, above the rank of a churl, within
fifty miles of this place."

"I don't know well what to ask," replied the voice of Robert Woodhall;
and there seemed to be a whispered consultation between him and his
young companion. "Yes, yes, ask him that," said the voice of
Margaret's brother.

"Well, then," said Robert Woodhall, aloud, "tell me, if you can, in
all these choppings and changes of the times, what shall become of the
two kindred houses of Coldenham and Woodhall?"

"They shall be reunited," said the old man, at once and decidedly,
"and that before four years are over."

"Ay! How is that to be?" said the voice of Robert Woodhall, seemingly
puzzled by the reply; and then, after a moment's pause, he added, "I
suppose you mean that I shall marry my fair cousin Maggy."

Margaret's hand pressed tight on Ralph Woodhall's arm, and her
beautiful eyes fixed straining upon the door, as if she hoped that
their earnest gaze might reach the face of the old man, and read upon
it the answer ere it was uttered. The next moment, however, she heard
him reply, "I did not say so. I tell you what is to be, not how it is
to be."

"Well, then, tell me," exclaimed Robert Woodhall, in a more serious
tone, "shall I marry my cousin Margaret?"

"You shall go to the altar with her," replied the old man; but, ere he
could end the sentence, her brother Henry exclaimed, "You must have
changed your manners, and your morals too, Robby, before then, or I
tell you fairly I would stop it, even if it were at the altar step."

"It is not for you to stop it, young man," said the other deep-toned
voice; and then, suddenly breaking away from the subject, the old man
exclaimed, "There! if you desire to know which way the hunt has gone,
lo! there it goes over the fens hard by, and, if they take not good
heed, many a horse, and perhaps some men, will leave their lives
there."

"There it goes," cried Robert Woodhall; "come, Hal, come! Do not let
us stand wrangling and befooling ourselves here; let us to horse and
after them;" and the next instant was heard the sound of the two young
men's steps running rapidly down the stairs.

In the mean time, Margaret leaned her forehead upon Ralph Woodhall's
shoulder and wept; and, after a brief pause, the old man endeavored to
open the door from the other side.

Ralph drew back the bolt, but there were two sad faces which met
Moraber's eyes; for both the lovers had read his words in one sense,
and both, if the truth must be told, put some faith in them.

"Why weeping?" said the old man, gazing kindly at Margaret.

"You told me," said the beautiful girl, "to be true, and I should be
happy. How can I be either true or happy if I am to wed that man--a
man whom I abhor, a man who frightens me?"

The old man smiled. "It shall all be as I have said," he replied,
"though you can not see the how or the when. If the book of fate, dear
lady, could be laid open before your eyes, it would appear to you only
full of darkness and contradictions, unless you could perceive all the
myriads of fine links and intricate threads which unite event and
event together. These I myself can not see, and much that my art
discloses seems contradictory to me as well as yourself. Nevertheless,
that it _shall be_ I know; and if you find that my words come not
true, and all seeming contradictions melt away, I give you both leave
to call me liar and fool, and if I be still living, pluck me by the
beard in the public street. Nay, more, in compassion for your
weakness, and your partial want of faith, you may, when you find
events seemingly going contrary to my prediction, come to me, send to
me, write to me in your dread and apprehension, and I will give you
renewed assurance, and, perhaps, clear information. Be not afraid,
dear lady; have faith, and it shall go well."

Margaret shook her head and sighed, and the old man, turning to her
lover, asked, in a low tone, "When do you go forth?"

"In two or three days," replied Ralph; "but how did you know I was
going forth?"

The old man smiled. "I should be little worth consulting," he replied,
"if I knew not so trifling a thing as that. In two or three days! You
must take a long ride before that. You must go to a place you have not
seen for years, and to people that you love not. To-morrow morning
early, instead of hanging about the nest of this sweet bird, mount
your horse and ride away to Coldenham Castle; see the proud old lady,
see her eldest son. She will receive you ill, and treat you with
neglect, perhaps contempt. But laugh at it, Ralph Woodhall, laugh at
it; and mark every thing that you see in every chamber that you
enter--every chair, and table, and decoration, and piece of tapestry.
You shall be better than she is some day, and have rooms as fine, and
ornaments as gorgeous. If the woman is very fierce, just say to her,
calmly, that she has not done you justice, and that the day will come
when she must think better of you."

"But I love not to go near her," replied Ralph; "she is hateful to me
in many respects--a bold, harsh, bad woman; and, moreover, I see not
the use in visiting one whose only intercourse with my father or
myself led to total estrangement between him and his lordly cousin,
and to my mortification and injury."

"Go!" said the old man, in a tone of authority. "Go! as I have told
you; let her not say that you slunk out of your native county without
venturing to see your nearest relations. Perchance she may offer to
advance your views."

"Then I would spurn her offers with contempt," replied Ralph.

"What!" cried the other, laying his finger lightly upon Margaret's
hand, which rested on the table; "what! with this in view?"

"Margaret could never wish me to do a mean and base thing," answered
Ralph, "even for the greatest happiness that Heaven could bestow."

"Go, at all events," repeated the other, with a look not altogether
dissatisfied; "refuse or accept her good offices as you will; but go!
and now mark me further, youth: you will need a servant with you on
your wanderings. I know where you will find one who will suit you."

"Alas! good sir," replied Ralph, "I have no means to indulge in such
attendance. I can neither afford to pay a servant or to feed him."

"Did I not say that I knew one who would suit you?" asked the other,
"and when I said that I meant that he would suit you in all respects.
The one I speak of will have payment of a certain kind, but not from
you, and as to the rest, he will find means to feed himself; you must
take him with you, for he may be needful. Now remark: as, on your
return homeward from the castle, you pass through the village of
Coldenham, you will see a low white house, six doors beyond the
church; you will know it by the beams of the frame-work shining in
lozenges through the whitewash, and by the gables being turned to the
road; stop at the door, and ask for Gaunt Stilling: a lad will come
out to you, and you have but to say to him, Moraber says you are to be
at Halling's corner at such an hour of such a day, in order to go
through the world with me; and if you are punctual to the time you
tell him, you will find him at the place to the moment of the
appointed time. Ask him no questions, indulge no vain curiosity, and
he will serve you well and faithfully. Nay, more, he will, in case of
need, be able to communicate quickly with me, should I not be here
when you need counsel and assistance."

Ralph mused a moment, and then, looking up frankly, answered, "This is
all strange enough, but I will do as you desire. I hear all the people
round say that you are a good and kind man; that you cure them of
their ailments, relieve them in their need, and often, by your timely
help, turn the trembling scale of fortune in favor of the good and the
industrious. You would not do aught, I am sure, to raise hopes that
are vain, or to thwart efforts that are honest."

"I would not," replied the old man, solemnly, "but I would do the
reverse. And now it is time for both of you to speed home. The hunt
will soon be over. Do you know the way by the black lane?"

Ralph answered that he did; and saying "Take that, it is the safest,"
the old man led Margaret to the top of the stairs.




CHAPTER VII.


In a large and handsome room; in a splendid building of ancient
date--one of the few which, either in consequence of the political or
religious opinions of the owners, escaped ruin during the civil
wars--situated upon a gentle eminence on the confines of Nottingham
and Lincolnshire, with green turf sloping away to a wood of old trees,
to have wandered among which would have rejoiced the heart of Evelyn,
sat a lady considerably past the prime of life, yet with all the fire
of youth in her jet black eyes. She was not very tall, and yet there
was something commanding in her figure and her carriage which gave a
beholder the idea of greater height than she really possessed. The
figure, indeed, had suffered little from the ravages of time; and
although youthful grace might be gone--the supple, easy undulation of
unstiffened muscles--all the native dignity remained, rendered harsher
but not less remarkable by a certain degree of rigidity.

No one could deny that the features of the face were handsome, but yet
they did not possess that outline which is generally pleasing, and
there was something peculiarly repulsive in the expression--perhaps it
might be its unfeminineness (to coin a word); to this the general cast
of the features lent themselves greatly, now that the plump roundness
of early life had departed. The nose was aquiline, and strongly
marked, though beautifully cut; the eyebrows were thick, and still
quite dark; the eyes, as I have said, were black as jet, but no small
twinkling orbs, as is very frequently the case with very black eyes.
On the contrary, they were large and oval. The chin had probably been
very beautiful, though somewhat prominent, but now it had that
tendency to turn up which age generally gives to this feature when the
nose is aquiline. The hair, as white as silver, was turned back from
the forehead, just suffering two or three little snowy curls to escape
above the temples. Her dress was gorgeous, and even at that hour--it
was before noon--she wore a number of costly jewels.

To look upon her, one felt that there was a person of a strong will
and powerful intellect, but no one could imagine that any of the
tender weaknesses of woman's heart had ever found place in that bosom.

She had before her, at the moment I have chosen to present her to the
reader, a number of papers--stewards' accounts, household books,
statements of building expenses, and estimates; but with these she
seemed to have done, for though her jeweled fingers rested upon them,
her head was lifted, and her eyes turned toward the casement, though
the sun was shining through it fiercely; and on her face there was a
look of stern desolation--of melancholy, not gentle, but hard, which
might well picture disappointed expectation from those worldly goods,
which always, in the words of the poet, "turn to ashes on the lips."

As she thus sat, a servant entered and approached quietly within a
respectful distance, and then stood waiting for her notice. For a
moment she pursued her revery, whatever was its subject; but then,
seeming to become by degrees conscious of the man's presence, she
slightly turned her head and inclined her ear. Well versed in all her
ways, the man immediately announced his errand, saying, "Mr. Ralph
Woodhall, my lady, is below, and desires admittance to you."

"Who? who?" cried the lady, almost starting from her chair, while her
face grew alternately white and red, and her eye flashed with angry
brightness.

"Mr. Ralph Woodhall, the gentleman said," replied the servant.

"Let the beggar's son ride off!" said his mistress, fiercely; "he
shall not--no, he shall not--yet stay--give him admittance, but not at
once--not at once; keep him five minutes or so, then bring him in."

The servant bowed low and retired, not at all surprised by bursts of
strong feeling, to which he was apparently well accustomed.

As soon as he was gone, the lady rose and walked up and down the room.
"Ralph Woodhall," she said aloud, "Ralph Woodhall! what can bring him
here at the end of seven or eight years? I thought I had freed this
house of him and his miserable inert father--come to beg, perhaps.
Well, no matter, they can do no great harm, now that my good lord is
dead; or perhaps--but no, that can not be--Ralph Woodhall. But hark!
they are coming;" and she resumed her seat, smoothing her brow, and
affecting to look quickly over the papers before her.

The next instant young Ralph Woodhall was ushered into the room, and
his name pompously announced; but the lady took no notice, and still
turned over the papers, comparing one page with another. Ralph was
well dressed, and the glow of youth and exercise were upon as fine and
manly a face as eye could look upon. He observed at once the studied
negligence of his reception, and his first impulse was to turn upon
his heel and quit the room; but he thought that by so doing he would
give the proud woman the advantage, and, doubting not that it was her
intention to keep him standing like a dependant till she chose to
notice him, he advanced, with wonderful tranquillity of air, and
seated himself in one of the green velvet chairs exactly opposite to
her, throwing himself back, and letting his eye run quietly over the
decorations of the room.

Her eye was instantly upon him, and a bright red glow came into her
cheek. "Young man," she said, after a moment or two of bitter silence,
"nobody seats himself in my presence till he is asked to do so. You
are unmannerly."

"Pardon me, Lady Coldenham," replied the young man, boldly, "I seat
myself in the presence of any one but my king, and the more readily
where I see there are not manners enough to prevent my doing so
unasked." The lady gazed at him for an instant with flashing eyes; but
then something seemed to give a turn to her motions, and she burst
into a laugh, crying, "This is too good! you are a scholar, I think,
young man. Pray, under what professor did you study manners?"

"Under one, madam, who taught me that riches are not superior to
gentle blood," replied Ralph; "that rank is to be respected only where
it is combined with higher qualities, and that high station should
meet with reverence when it is ornamented with courtesy, but not
otherwise, except from fools and sycophants."

"By the book!" said the lady, "by the book! marvelous well remembered
and recited; and now what brings you here, Sir Scholar? To what do I
owe your polite attention? You come not here without cause--without
motive, I suppose."

"I have been over-persuaded, Lady Coldenham," replied the young man,
"to ride over, before I set out upon a somewhat long excursion, in
order to make a formal call at the house of my father's cousin's
widow, the only title by which you can be known to me--the only title
which justifies or gives occasion for my visiting you."

Instead of a violent burst of passion, which he certainly expected,
Lady Coldenham sat perfectly silent, leaned her head upon her hand,
and repeated to herself once or twice the words "The only title!" She
recovered herself soon, however, and replied, with a knitted brow,
fiery eye, and stern bitterness of tone, "You are an insolent
coxcomb--you always were."

The old man's words recurred to Ralph's mind at that moment, and he
replied, as he had been prompted, though not with perfect accuracy,
"Lady Coldenham," he said, "you have not done justice to me and mine,
but the time will come when you must do us justice. I came not here to
quarrel with you, or to bandy angry words, but with some hope that
time might have made a change in you, or, at all events, might have
banished bitter memories. I find it is not so, and therefore I will
take my leave."

Thus saying, he rose, and was about to depart, but the lady exclaimed
vehemently, "Sit down! I wish to speak with you."

He did as she desired, and for several minutes the old lady remained
in thought, apparently struggling with some strong emotions in her own
breast. At length she raised her eyes, which had been fixed vacantly
on the table, and said, with a quivering lip, "You are bold and harsh,
young man; but that I can forgive; I am not timid or tender myself. We
are about to part for long, perhaps forever. Tell me, what can I do
for you? If I can do aught, I will. That I owe to the memory of
others."

"You can do nothing for me, madam, that I will accept," the young man
replied; "a man must be base indeed to receive favors from one who
grants them unwillingly. Happily, I need nothing, and certainly I
would accept nothing at your hands even if I did. I am glad, however,
that you have made the offer, as it suffers us to part with less angry
words upon our lips than passed before. I thank you for your offer,
and now will take my leave."

Thus saying, he arose and left the room, where the lady remained
musing without uttering a word. On descending to the hall, he was met,
in crossing it, by a young gentleman gayly attired, the eldest son of
Lady Coldenham, and the actual possessor of the family title and
estates. He might be two or three-and-twenty of age; but such had been
the dominion exercised by Lady Coldenham over her husband during his
life, that he had left, on dying, immense and unusual control over his
whole property to his widow, besides a large jointure. Whispers,
indeed, had gone abroad that the death-bed of the old lord had
presented a painful and unsatisfactory scene, not only because he had
died without faith and hope, but because the domineering spirit of his
wife had been exercised, at that last fearful moment, with more
violence and eagerness than even during his lifetime; and that she had
watched his bedside night and day, not with the purpose of soothing
and consoling, but, as the servants judged, from her never suffering
him to be alone for a moment with any one, for the purpose of keeping
him her slave to the last.

The young man looked for a moment at Ralph Woodhall as a stranger, but
then suddenly recollecting him, he held out his hand frankly, saying,
"Ah, Ralph, how is it we never see you now? Why, your face had
well-nigh passed from my recollection, it is so long since you were
here."

"When last I was here, my lord," answered Ralph, "I had no great
encouragement to come back again."

"Oh, you mean my mother's conduct," answered the young lord; "you
should never mind her. She bullies every one. She always did; and if
every one she maltreats were to fly from her, she would have no
companions but the family portraits. Come along with me; I have a
famous mew of hawks to show you, which I have had trained after the
fashion of the olden time."

Ralph, however, pleaded want of time, and, after a few minutes more
spent in kindly conversation, the two young men separated; it must be
owned, with some regret upon Ralph's part at least. Lord Coldenham had
been the only one of the family who had shown him any kindness in his
younger days. He knew him to be like what his father had been,
placable, good-humored, and generous, full of honorable impulses,
though too easily governed, and he could well have made him a friend,
perhaps to the advantage of the young lord himself.

At the great door he found his horse fastened to a ring, the servants,
who always take their tone from the leading spirit of the house,
having judged it not worth their while to take the beast into the
stable, or to hold him till its master descended. Ralph tried to
banish all angry feelings, but a deep and indignant sense of ill
treatment remained which he could not master; and, mounting without
delay, he rode off toward the village, which lay at the distance of
about two miles. His beast was weary and wanted food, so that his
first care was to seek out the little public house, which he
remembered well. He there gave the horse into the charge of the
hostler, and then set out for the house which had been indicated to
him as the place where he would find a servant. As he strolled along
through the village, he could not help remarking the increased
appearance of decay which was manifest in all the houses, the
buildings, and the little gardens. Though never very prosperous,
Coldenham, when last he saw it, had appeared at least neat and
comfortable; but now the broken thatches, covered, but not concealed,
by houseleek; the windows patched, or very often without glass; the
railings and fences dilapidated, and insufficient to keep out the pigs
and cattle, and the gardens half cultivated and full of weeds,
presented a sad change. The only building which had remained much as
he had seen it was the old church, standing upon a piece of ground
raised a good deal above the road, with its grave-yard surrounded with
a low stone wall. Ralph paused for a moment, and gazed up at the tall,
thin, graceful spire, which he remembered having contemplated often in
former years, wondering how it had been built to such a height. All
was as he had seen it then. The tooth of time had fed upon it largely
in years long past, crumbling down the rich cut ornaments, corbels,
and gargoyles; but, as if the destroying monster could sometimes weary
of his diet, there was no appearance of his having touched the
building since Ralph stood before it last. Nor had any thing been done
to improve it; the same green, mossy look, which had been given to the
stone by the damp air sweeping through the fens, was still there; and
one of the coping stones of the little cemetery wall which had fallen
off, and which he had often seen lying within the fence, was lying
there still unreplaced.

The door was open, and, walking through the cemetery, the young man
went in. The tombs of his ancestors were there, and he wished to take
another look at them before he went afar. Walking up the aisle, he
soon stood before the spot where stood the monument of Sir Robert
Woodhall, who was considered the founder of the family. A gorgeous
monument it was, richly carved and ornamented; and the gratitude of.
the old knight's posterity had recorded, upon a tablet on one side,
the numerous virtues, real or imaginary, of the dead: how he had
fought for his sovereign in the field; how he had aided him with his
wisdom in the council; and how he had left two sons, both of whom he
had lived to see become peers of the realm. Then came the tombs of the
two sons, Robert, Lord Coldenham, and Ralph, Lord Woodhall; and then
the tombs of two more, another Robert, the grandfather of his own
father and of the late Lord Coldenham, and another Ralph, the
progenitor of the present Lord Woodhall. They were all Roberts and
Ralphs, with the exception of here and there a Henry, like a graft
upon an old stock. Every one has felt the eternally-speaking moral of
old monuments; the comment they are ever reading upon the vanity of
all the struggles, passions, and hopes of earth--upon the vanity of
vanities, ambition. I will not, therefore, dwell upon it, except as it
affected the young man who there stood and gazed. He might feel that
he came there with overeager expectations, with strong desires and
aspirations after worldly greatness--after things which, whether as a
means or an end, are but as a part of that great strife which ends in
emptiness. There lay around him, gathered into one small space not a
dozen yards square, a multitude of his own kin, who had struggled, and
toiled, and hoped, and desired like himself; who had even succeeded,
and had yet inherited nothing, for all their pains, but six feet of
earth and that piece of moldering marble; while the very deeds which
had gained them luster and renown their hopes, fears, and exertions,
occupied but a point far less in the vast waste of time than their
grave upon the surface of the earth. Feeling sad and reproved, he was
turning away, when a voice near him said, "Would not the best epitaph
of all be, 'He lived and died?' It is all that can be said with
certainty of any man."

On looking round, Ralph perceived standing near him and looking over
his shoulder an elderly man in the dress of a peasant well to do. He
had put off his shoes and laid down his hat somewhere about the
church, and by these indications Ralph concluded rightly that he was
the sexton. He asked him whether it was so, however, and the old man
replied, "Yea, truly, I am the sexton."

"You were not here when I was last in Coldenham," said Ralph; "what
has become of Harrison, who was sexton here before you?"

The old man pointed with his finger to the pavement, saying, "Down
there--he is as good as a lord now, and occupies just as much room.
When he died, I was sent for by the old lady; for I come from a
distance out of Dorsetshire, her own county."

"Then of course you are a great friend of hers," replied Ralph.

"Nay, why should you think so?" asked the old man.

"Because she put you in this good office," said Ralph.

"That is no reason," replied the sexton; "gifts do not always come
from favor, nor fortune either. I take what I get, and am thankful. I
ask not whence it comes, nor why. I can not be the friend of a great
lady nor the friend of a proud lady. Good office call you it? Marry!
the dead often do good to the living, and so it is with me; but the
living do no good to the dead, and so in one sense the office is not a
good one. It is like that of the hangman, who is said to do the last
offices to a culprit; but mine go beyond his, and are the only true
last offices; for I give back to the earth what the earth gave to the
light, and there is no hand between mine and eternity."

The conversation had a somber hue, and Ralph sought to turn it,
saying, "It seems to me that the village is much decayed since I last
saw it. The people do not seem so comfortable--so much at ease, as
when I was here before."

"How should they be so?" asked the sexton. "The many are always more
or less dependent upon the few; and in a country village of this land,
they derive their prosperity from the great folks near them. Mind,
young master, I speak of prosperity--not alone of wealth--of the
happiness that cheers labor, of the protection which prompts it, of
the example which leads in the right way, and of the generosity which
rewards those who follow it. How would you have the people prosperous
here, with no one of wealth and station near them but an old woman all
pride and diamonds, whose only object is to maintain her state and her
two sons; and their only bounties are the riding over our fields and
gardens, and the debauching of our wives and daughters? Marry! well
may the fences go to decay, the thatch go to decay, and the roof-tree
fall in. There is a good receipt for rendering a place desolate, and
these people have found it."

"I fear so, my good man," replied Ralph; "but you speak freely
dangerous things."

"I fear not, master," replied the old man, with a quiet smile;
"although, to say truth, I might not speak such things if you were not
a traveling stranger in the place."

"I am nearer akin to those you mention than you are aware of," replied
Ralph, turning toward the door; "but be not afraid, I will not betray
you, for I think much as you do."

"I am not the least afraid," replied the sexton, following him slowly,
and taking up his shoes and hat as he went; "I shall do very well,
whatever is said of me."

Ralph walked on, and took the little path branching to the right from
the church porch, which led in the direction of the house that Moraber
had described. It was at no great distance beyond, so that you could
see it from the little gate of the church-yard; and Ralph was
surprised, as he advanced through the old elms that shaded the little
graves, at the neatness and air of comfort which the dwelling
presented. It was larger and more roomy, too, than most of the other
houses near; for the doctor and the lawyer had not yet sprung up in
every village in the land, and the parsonage was the only good-looking
edifice in Coldenham, except the church.

Before the door, on a little patch of green which separated it from
the road, stood a fine old oak greatly decayed in the heart, but
having a bench underneath its shattered branches, where the cool air
might be enjoyed of a summer's evening; and pausing for a moment
beside the tree, the young gentleman looked up at the dwelling with
some doubts as to whether he was right or not.

The persevering old sexton was upon him the next moment, asking, in
his ordinary quaint tone, "Seek you any one there, young gentleman?"

"Yes, I do," replied Ralph, "if I am right in the house. I am seeking
a young man named Stilling."

"An old man named Stilling is talking to you," replied the sexton;
"but what is the Christian name of the man you seek?"

"Gaunt Stilling, I was told to ask for," replied Ralph. "Are you his
father?"

"So it is supposed," replied the old man, "but he is not within. Will
you come in and wait till he returns?"

"I must needs see him," replied Ralph, thoughtfully; and at the same
moment the old man opened the door which led into the house. As he did
so, a female figure with a beautiful face, of which Ralph had but one
glance, passed quickly across the passage, giving a look round, and
then disappearing instantly.

The young man made no remark, but he thought he saw traces of tears
upon the bright face that glanced by him. The sexton's countenance
fell a little, but he bated not his courtesy to the stranger, leading
him into a neat sanded parlor, and pressing him to take some
refreshment. With his own hands he brought in some cheese and bread,
and excellent butter, and then went out and fetched a foaming brown
jug of good strong ale.

"Homely fare for a young gentleman of the house of Woodhall," he said;
and he continued to talk and moralize for some ten minutes, while
Ralph, to say the truth, enjoyed his viands amazingly. At the end of
that time the young man began to reply and ask questions in return;
but their further conversation was interrupted by the dashing up of a
splendid horse to the door. To Ralph's surprise, the old sexton
started up from his seat, ran to the outer door, and turned the key in
it. Then, after looking at it for a moment with a grim smile, he
returned to the little parlor, saying to himself, "Nay, nay, not so."

He had hardly seated himself when a hand was laid upon the latch of
the outer door, and some one pushed hard. The lock, however, barred
all entrance, and the visitor knocked once or twice, saying, "Kate!
Kate, let me in!"

"Thou wilt soon have some one to deal with thee," said the old man, in
a low tone; and a moment after another horse was heard coming quickly
along the road, and then followed the sound of angry voices.

"Get home with you!" cried one; "I warned you before; and be you
lord's son or beggar's son, if I see you within a hundred yards of
that house, I will give you such a hiding as will take some of the
rankness out of you."

"Insolent scoundrel!" replied another voice, in the tones of which
Ralph thought he recognized those of Robert Woodhall; "I have a great
mind to send my sword through you, and if it were not for Kate's sake,
I would. But you shall be punished for your insolence notwithstanding
Lady Coldenham will soon send you and your old puritanical father
packing back to Dorsetshire."

"As for your sword," replied the other, in a scornful tone, "you dare
not draw it out of its sheath, and if you did, I would break it over
your back. As for your mother, you had better go and ask her what she
will do before you announce it. I have seen her since you have, and
proud as she is, she will not back you in your rascality. Get you gone
speedily, for my fingers itch to seize you by the throat and grind
your face into the mud. But you are a coward as well as a scoundrel,
and not worth punishing. You have done harm enough already, and you
shall do no more harm here."

After these words there was a momentary pause, sufficient for any one
to have mounted on horseback, and then the prancing of a horse's feet,
while Robert Woodhall's voice uttered some words, apparently of a very
offensive nature; for, although Ralph could not hear them distinctly,
they were followed by a loud and angry exclamation from the other
person, who added, "If you boast truly, I will have the best blood in
your heart."

Some one then cantered away from the house, and the old sexton rose
and unlocked the door, giving admission to a youth of three or
four-and-twenty years of age, whose form at first sight appeared so
lithe and spare as to be fitted only for great agility, but which,
when examined with a more careful eye, showed all the indications of
great strength in the sinewy muscles and exact proportions. His face
was heated, and he entered the room with a hurried step, but stopped
short on perceiving a stranger.

"Calm thyself, calm thyself," said his father; "thou art too hot and
rash, my son. Hast thou said to the old woman what I told thee?"

The son nodded his assent, and the father added, "Not a word more or
less."

"Not a word!" replied the son.

"Then he will come here no more," said the father; "but yet, as it is
impossible to put bridles upon young men bred up in luxury and vice,
it were well to follow the course we have determined, and we must set
about it quickly. Here is a gentleman, my son, who has come hither
asking for thee. Hear what it is he seeks."

"What is it you would with me, sir?" asked the young man, in a civil
tone.

"I have but a message to give you," replied Ralph; "Moraber says that
you are to be at Halling's corner at nine o'clock of the morning on
Thursday next, to go through the world with me."

"That gives but two clear days," exclaimed the young man, looking at
his father; "it can not be."

"Yes, yes, it can," cried the old man, eagerly; "you must not deny
him, boy."

"But I will not have her stay here," replied the younger Stilling;
"come what will, that shall not be."

"I will go with her myself," replied the old man; "you can remain here
till Thursday morning; by that time I shall be on my way back, and at
home by Friday night. He shall come, sir, he shall come. Tell our
friend that he will not fail."

"If you mean by that the person calling himself Moraber," replied
Ralph, "I shall not see him again before I depart; but doubtless he
will know of your son's compliance with his wishes."

"Oh yes, he will not fail to know," answered the sexton; "but why do
you say 'calling himself Moraber?' Think you that is not his real
name?"

"That is clearly a foreign name," replied the young gentleman, "and
his tongue bespeaks the Englishman."

"Oh! he knows many things that you little dream of," answered the old
man, "and can speak in one tongue as well as in another; however, my
son shall be with you at the time and place."

"I would fain know first whom I am going with," said Gaunt Stilling

"My name is Ralph Woodhall," replied the young gentleman, "the son of
Mr. Woodhall of The Grange."

The other paused and mused for a moment or two, after which he said,
"Well, sir, I will go with you; I have heard you spoken well of--the
only one of your name."

"Nay, nay," replied Ralph, "my cousin Henry, Lord Woodhall's son, is
surely an exception to your censure."

"He is well enough," replied the other; "not so bad as the worst, nor
so good as the best; but he may pass among young blades for a
ph[oe]nix, perhaps."

"Well, but his sister Margaret," said Ralph, the color slightly
deepening in his cheek, "surely you have no ill word to say of her."

"Oh ho! sits the wind so?" cried Gaunt Stilling, with a laugh; but the
moment after he added, in a grave and earnest tone, "No, sir, I have
no word to say against her; she is ever named as a good and sweet
young lady, gentle to every one, kind and generous to the poor. She is
very beautiful, too; that I can testify, for I once saw her. He who
wins her will be a rich man, for she is a treasure. However, sir, I
will be at the place appointed on Thursday morning, and ready to serve
you to the best of my power, and all the more willingly because you
are hated by those whom I hate. It is a good sign to have such men's
enmity."

After this engagement Ralph waited no longer, but taking leave of the
old sexton and his son, and thanking the former for his hospitality,
he returned for his horse to the little alehouse, mounted, and rode
away.




CHAPTER VIII.


Happily for Ralph Woodhall, the morning was bright and beautiful: I
say happily, because, although as far as his own person was concerned,
he would have little cared had the rain poured down as it has never
poured since the days of Noah, yet the sparkling brilliancy of the
morning cheered his spirits, and lightened the weight of parting with
those he loved. It is curious how much there is in association, and
how a sort of latent, diffusible superstition mingles with all
associations, especially those connected with the weather. "Happy is
the bride that the sun shines upon; happy is the dead that the rain
rains upon," is an old proverb. The day is said to "frown" upon an
enterprise; and who is there that, undertaking any thing in which
great interests are involved, sees a gloomy and menacing sky over his
head, and does not thence draw evil auguries?

The morning was bright and smiling when Ralph Woodhall set out upon
his journey. All nature appeared to rejoice; the fresh green trees,
the sparkling river, even the dark brown moor seemed to revel in the
sunshine; the light air waved the branches, and carried now and then a
small floating shadow from a hardly-seen cloud over the bosom of the
landscape, bringing out the brightness with stronger effect. The
moment was one which Ralph had dreaded. The parting had been very
different before: first, because the tenderer ties which bound him to
that spot had not been so strong; and, secondly, because, on every
former occasion, there had been a fixed limit to his proposed absence.
He had gone to the university for his term, and knew or hoped that,
when it was ended, he should return. But now all was vague and misty.
Months, years, the better part of life itself, might wane before he
saw his father's house again; and then the long, long absence from his
Margaret! It was in vain that he reasoned with himself--that he argued
that departure afforded the only chance of winning her; that to linger
on there, spending hours which should be devoted to active exertion in
the storm-foretelling calm of temporary happiness, was only to insure
bitter disappointment, and to render that disappointment ten times
more bitter. It was all in vain. He had looked forward to the moment
of parting with dread; but, as I have said, the brightness and the
light, and the sparkling of the scene, gave preponderance to hope
against fear. It seemed a happy omen to him; it seemed to promise the
smile of Heaven upon his endeavors, the sunshine of success to light
his way.

Early in the morning, with the first light, he had risen from his bed,
and made his final arrangements for departure. All that he intended to
take absolutely with him had been packed into two large leathern bags,
commonly used by travelers in those days, which strapped to the back
of the saddle. A large trunk-mail stood filled with a variety of
little articles that he prized, books, gifts from friends, some
curious relics of olden times, and all the fine apparel that he
possessed, to go by one of those innumerable carriers who at that time
traversed the country in every direction, following often paths
peculiar to themselves, and at one time, when the plague was raging in
the land, actually tracking out new roads, or changing small by-lanes
into high-ways, in order to avoid infected places.

When he was dressed and ready, he descended quietly to his father's
room, and opened the door with a gentle hand, for Mr. Woodhall was
never a very early riser, and Ralph fancied that he might be still
asleep. He found him, however, lying reading in his bed, and, after
taking a brief parting, not without its tenderness and depth of
feeling, however few the words might be, the young man retired. When
he was near the door, however, old Mr. Woodhall exclaimed, "Ralph!
Ralph!" and added, when his son turned toward him, "you have not
forgotten your Cicero, I hope; you said you would put him in your
saddle-bags; he is a good companion, Ralph." His son assured him that
Cicero had not been forgotten, and then departed.

The next parting was a silent one, but not less full of emotion. There
was a little rise in the ground upon the road which he traveled,
whence the whole of one side of the mansion of Woodhall was visible to
the wanderer's eye. The house was indeed so near that small ornaments
of stone-work could be easily distinguished across the stream, and at
one of the windows, which, by one means or another, he had learned to
know better than any of the rest, there was a fair face gazing out
upon the road. Ralph paused for an instant, and waved his hand; a hand
was waved in return, and then Margaret retreated hastily from the open
window, and he thought he could see her kneel down at the foot of the
bed, as if to pray or weep.

"I will win her or die," said Ralph to himself, and that last
interview armed him, perhaps, more than all else, to struggle with the
difficulties before him. There is nothing in the world so invigorating
to the wrestler, man, in his combat with the world, as a strong
passion and a strong resolution.

From that spot he rode on rapidly, gaining the high country by
degrees, sometimes sweeping over a bare hill side, sometimes passing
along under a bank from which stretched forth a canopy of trees. At
the distance of about four miles there was a small hamlet, from which
the inhabitants of the cottages had principally gone forth to their
early labors in the field; but one old woman, withered and blear, with
such a face as would easily have made a witch in any land not more
than fifty years before, was sitting spinning at one of the doors. As
the young traveler came up she raised her eyes, and said aloud, "Ay,
those ride fast who ride to ill."

Ralph heard the words, and, somewhat more impressible that morning
than usual, he checked his horse and turned to the old crone: "Why say
you so, mother?" he asked; "I have never done you any ill, but good,
and to your son's family too."

"Ay, it does not matter, Master Ralph," replied the old woman, shaking
her head; "what I said is true, notwithstanding;" and she repeated it.

"Do you mean to say I am riding to do ill or to suffer ill?" asked the
young man.

"Ay, to suffer more than you know of," replied the woman.

"Then I do not thank you for telling me so," said Ralph, half angrily;
and, turning his horse, he rode away at the same quick pace as before.
For an instant or two the old woman's words made some impression on
his mind; but then hope and expectation bounded up again. He looked to
the bright blue heaven, and the glorious sun, and the sparkling
landscape, and unconsciously giving a wave of his hand toward it, he
exclaimed, "I go with no evil purpose; I will do no base deed; and the
God who made all these, who rolls the stars aloft, and brightens the
skies above, and sends rain to fertilize, and sunshine to vivify, will
guide, provide for, and protect me also."

The distance to Halling's Corner, where he was to meet his new
servant, was considerable, but when he reached the spot no one was to
be seen. It was a place where two roads crossed, and Ralph looked up
and down each of them. No one was in sight; and, taking out one of the
cumbrous watches of the day, the young man found that, by dint of
riding fast, he had arrived nearly half an hour before the time
appointed. There was nothing for it but patience, and, dismounting, he
loosened the girths, and walked the horse up and down. At the end of
about twenty minutes, while he was a few yards distant from the
corner, he heard the voice of some one singing a common country air of
the time; and when he could see down the other road, he perceived
another horseman coming quietly up at a jog-trot. Rightly concluding
that it was his new man, Gaunt Stilling, he waved his hand for him to
make haste, and proceeded to refix his saddle The other, however, did
not hurry his pace in the least; and when he reached the spot, Ralph
told him, somewhat impatiently, that he had been waiting half an hour.

Stilling smiled good-humoredly, and replied, "Well, sir, you are now
master, and I am man, and it is bad for the master to wait upon the
man; but I have heard that, in point of punctuality, it is as bad to
be too soon as too late. It wants just five minutes of the hour, if I
judge the time right."

"No harm can happen from being a little too soon," replied Ralph.

"Sometimes, sir," answered Gaunt Stilling; "many a man has got his
bones broken for being half an hour too soon; as, for instance, If a
man appoints another to help him in a fray, and gets to his enemy half
an hour before his friend, he will have time to take a mighty good
drubbing for his lack of punctuality."

"True, true," answered Ralph; "punctuality is, I believe, the best
rule, after all, and punctuality admits of no deviations. My horse
carried me somewhat more speedily than usual."

"More's the pity, sir," replied Stilling, "for his pace will not be so
good, nor his strength so enduring as if he had come slower. Take a
horse out coolly--bring him in cool, is a good maxim in my part of the
country. But here is a letter I have to give you."

Ralph took it and looked at the superscription, which imported, "To
his grace the Duke of Norfolk, greeting. These by the hands of Ralph
Woodhall, Esquire, a gentleman of mark."

"Who gave you this for me?" asked the young gentleman.

"I know not, sir," answered Stilling; "it was left at our house."

"I have another letter for the duke," said Ralph, thoughtfully; "who
can this be from?"

"Two are always better than one," replied his companion; "one may hit
the nail that another misses."

"If so, it is fortunate," rejoined the young gentleman, "for I am
going straight to the duke's house in Norwich, judging that he might
best forward my views."

"I fancied that you would wing your flight thither, sir," said the
other, "as soon as I saw that letter."

"Why so?" demanded Ralph, "if you know not from whom this came?"

"Because I judged that no one would send you a letter for a place to
which they did not know you were going," was Stilling's reply; and
with it Ralph was obliged to be content, for it was very clear that if
the man did really know more, he was in no mood for telling it. One
question, however, he did ask, after they had mounted and were on
their way: "Do you know, Stilling," he said, "whether this letter is
or is not from old Lady Coldenham? My conduct in regard to it will be
decided by your answer: for if it be from her, I will not present it:
not that I fear the nature of its contents, for she can say naught
truly against me, but because I will receive no favor at her hands,
from reasons of my own."

"Would that all others had such reasons, or had attended to them,"
replied the servant, in a somewhat bitter tone; but then, suddenly
changing his manner, he added, "the contents you can easily see, sir,
for the letter is unsealed; but I am certain it is not from the dame
at the castle, as I know her hand-shrift right well."

"I shall certainly not open it," answered Ralph, as they rode on; "I
hold that the man who opens a letter intrusted to his care, and reads
the contents, whatever be his excuse, must feel himself a base and
degraded being forever--worse, far worse than an eaves-dropping spy;
for the latter has nothing trusted to his honor, the other every
thing."

"What, sir, if the letter is left open for the purpose!" inquired the
other.

"Ay, under any circumstances," answered Ralph; "we can not widen the
line between honorable and dishonorable dealing. Unless I am clearly
told that a letter is intended for my reading, nothing should induce
me to read it."

"Did all men hold so," answered Gaunt Stilling, "many a famous general
would have been defeated, many a famous army beaten, many a great
victory lost."

"Not so," replied Ralph; "when I am at war, any property I can take
from my enemy is mine, and his secrets against myself above all; but
for opening any other letter except those intercepted from an enemy,
there is no excuse. No man can tell what may be in them; no one can
tell that secrets, which the writer would not have published for the
world, and not at all affecting those to whose sense of honor they are
confided, may not lie hid within that little fold of paper. Oh! how we
ought to blush, if, venturing upon such an act on any pretense, we
were to find within that which no man of honor ought ever to have
seen. No, no, Stilling, I will never look into a letter intrusted to
we, let the consequences to myself be what they may."

"I don't suppose the consequences could well be bad," replied
Stilling, "for I suppose that no one would give you an open letter
containing abuse of yourself, unless, indeed, they knew your
prejudices about such things; so you can put the letter by, and give
it to the duke in all safety, I believe."

"I have another letter for the duke," replied Ralph, "which I shall
deliver first, as I know who it comes from."

Ralph somewhat quickened his pace, but Gaunt Stilling, though
exceedingly respectful, seemed to have a will of his own, and not to
be at all inclined to over-hurry the beast that bore him. He lingered
behind, then, and the conversation consequently dropped. At the end of
about a mile and a half, however, Ralph, who had ridden on for about
three or four hundred yards, and might well be supposed by any
observer to have no connection with the young man who followed, had
his ear attracted by some sound behind him, and, turning round his
head, beheld his new servant off his horse, and undergoing the very
unpleasant process of being well cudgeled by three stout men. It was a
woody part of the country, properly suited for an ambush, somewhat
like the scenes which the famous Dutch painter chose for his attacks
by banditti. To save him as much as possible from the infliction which
he was undergoing, Ralph returned at full speed; and as Stilling was
struggling with all his might, which was not little, and had nearly
mastered one of his opponents, although the others were beating him
all the time, his master's coming to his help turned the strife in his
favor. An immediate inclination to flight displayed itself on the part
of his assailants; but Ralph contrived to get a thrust at one of them
with his sword-blade ere he ran away, and, at all events, drew blood;
while Stilling, taking advantage of the assistance afforded, pummeled
the one on whom he had principally fixed his attention in no very
gentle manner before he let him go.

The men, who speedily disappeared in the wood, were disguised with
handkerchiefs tied round and partly over their faces; but Stilling
seemed either to know them, or to have very little curiosity; for when
his master asked him in one breath whether he was hurt, and if he knew
the men who had attacked him, or their object, he replied, very
briefly, that he was not hurt, and as to the men, that he knew all
about them, and what brought them there. He showed, in short, so
little disposition to be communicative, that Ralph resolved to ask no
further questions, but only bidding him follow more closely, hurried
on at a quicker pace than ever, and soon after reached a better-beaten
and more-traveled road.




CHAPTER IX.


There is in the fine old town of Norwich, I believe, even to the
present day, the remains of a whilom inn, which once stood not far
from the River Wansum. Now nothing remains of it but a gable or two,
transmuted to purposes very much below the dignity of receiving
two-legged guests. Then, however, it was the principal inn in Norwich;
and a great change had come over the state and condition of our inns
since the time of Chaucer. In that day, inns had reached, in England,
very nearly the climax of perfection. Hotels were an abomination
unknown, although the name, descended from ancient times, still
lingered in various parts of the country. Cleanliness, neatness,
perfect ease, and independence characterized the inn of former years;
the linen was white as snow; the food was generally of the best kind,
however plain the cookery. There a man might take the world as it
came; there he might pass his time as in a dream, obtruded upon by
none of the hard realities of life, so long as he had in his purse
wherewith to satisfy the demands of his host, which in those days were
not very extravagant. There he might escape the impertinence, the
annoyance, the importunity of the world. There he might riot or revel,
muse or meditate, or read or write, or think or sleep, just as he
pleased, without interruption. It afforded the most perfect species of
liberty, the old English inn, without having any of the drawbacks of
confusion and anarchy. No tax-gatherer ever came there, at least with
the knowledge of the guests. The constable, even, was seen drinking
his pot, or ladling out his punch, or smoking his pipe, with the other
friendly persons round the bar, and, so long as order and decency were
maintained, and perhaps a little longer, no one interfered with the
quiet and ease that reigned within. The inn of the Half Moon, at the
time I mention, was one of this sort; and toward it, in the first
instance, as directed by others of experience, Ralph Woodhall took his
way on his arrival in the city of Norwich, on a somewhat gloomy
morning, about eleven o'clock. Before he took rest, however, or did
more than brush his clothes from dust, and take off the heavy
saddle-bags from their convenient position behind the saddle, to let
his beast get a little refreshment and food, Ralph remounted, and rode
away to another part of the town, higher up upon the Wansum. This was
the old house, or palace of the old Dukes of Norfolk, in which, during
their brief terms of residence in Norwich, they kept up in a limited
sphere the state and dignity of a sovereign prince.

There had been some doubt in the mind of Ralph, when he arrived in the
city, as to whether the nobleman on whom fancy, for the time, seemed
to make his hopes depend, was in the town or not; but, as he passed
along the streets, the number of servants which he saw in the Howard
liveries, and the gayety and bustle which pervaded one quarter of the
city, showed him that, so far as finding the duke, his first
expectations were likely to be fulfilled. The antique gate-way, with a
number of servants crowded under it--the wall surrounding the grounds
extending to the river--the massive pile itself of the principal
building, did not much impress him; for he thought it very much like
one of the colleges at Cambridge, to which his eye was well
accustomed. Appearing on horseback, and with a servant behind him, the
gates were moved back by the retainers in the porch to give him
admission into the court; and, descending there, he was led--while
Stilling remained to look after the horses--to a little chamber on the
ground floor called the Chamberlain's Office. There he explained his
business by simply saying that he brought a letter for the duke from
Lord Woodhall; and the grave-looking officer to whom he spoke, looking
at the letter in his hand, led him into a waiting-room, where he found
three other persons already in attendance on the duke's leisure. Each
man was amusing the weary moments of expectation as best he might; one
looking out of the window, which displayed an orchard in full beauty;
one walking up and down the room, with eyes fixed upon the floor and
hands behind the back; and one seated at a large table examining some
books, which had been laid there, probably, to beguile the time.
Patience and silence seemed to be the order of the day, and Ralph,
after looking curiously at the splendid furniture which decorated even
that plain room, betook himself to one of those volumes, which soon
afforded him amusement to pass half an hour pleasantly. While he read,
one after another of his companions in attendance was called out of
the room, and at length, laying down the book, he fell into a revery,
of that kind which often comes upon us at vacant moments--when brief
summings up of the testimony borne by events to the progress of our
fate, during a certain period just past, are made by memory, and left
to the judgment of the mind, to see if any thing can be made of the
case or not.

The great step was taken. Here he was, many miles from home, "seeking
his fortune," as the term was then. He had entered the house of one
who could at will advance his views or neglect his cause, with nothing
to recommend him but one letter from a distant relation, and one from
a person he did not know. Something, however, bearing on his destiny
was to be decided soon, and he felt all that eager, fluttering anxiety
of youth, which every man in early years must have experienced when
the great object of the moment was in the balance. There was not much
cause for hope, indeed; and expectation, even under the exaggeration
of youth, could hardly see space to stand upon; but love is a great
fanner of the flame of hope; and love was always mingling a word with
all Ralph's cogitations.

The lesser incidents, too, which had lately occurred, presented
themselves to the young man's mind when the greater facts were
discussed; the interview with the strange personage calling himself
Moraber; the conduct of Lady Coldenham; the meeting with Gaunt
Stilling, and the misadventure which had occurred to the latter on the
road, passed in review. Of all these, the demeanor of his new servant,
his circumstances, and his conduct, puzzled Ralph most. What was he?
Why did he at once obey the order to follow him? Was there any secret
brotherhood or association in the land, like that of the disciples of
the old man of the mountains, which bound its members to follow
implicitly the orders of an unknown superior? There had been at that
time whispers of such a league; and, if Stilling was a member thereof,
what dangers and obstructions might not his own course be brought
among by retaining the services of a person over whose conduct another
maintained so absolute and independent a control? Then, again, the
man's demeanor had not been without remarkable points. Perfectly
respectful he always was; but that he had his own particular notions,
and liked them better than all others, he did not fail to show. He
seemed to have no feeling of degradation from the office of servant
which he assumed. He gave no vain reason for his obedience; but there
was something in his manner which seemed to say, "I have taken upon me
certain duties, and the only proper, the only honorable course, is to
fulfill them to the very best of my ability. No honest task degrades a
man; the vanity of shirking it, or the fault of neglecting its
requirements when undertaken, may degrade. These are the only acts
which can make the position of a servant degrading. He is as honorable
as his master, if he does his duty as well." No task seemed too hard
for him; the very words _menial services_, so often used obnoxiously
by the mean and vulgar, he seemed to scorn. His pride was in doing
well what he undertook. He appeared to feel that, in doing so, he made
himself, in Nature's book, equal with all, superior to many placed
continually above him by station and wealth. He would trust the care
of the horses to none other; he was careful of his young master's
wardrobe; he refused to sit down with him at table, even in small
inns, where such a course was common, both in England and France.

All this showed a high mind and a clear intellect; but his character
had other puzzling points. Sometimes--and, indeed, this seemed his
general humor--he was as gay as the lark, full of glee and merriment;
but ever and anon he would fall into deep reveries--fits of thought,
deep, profound, even sad, from which it was difficult to rouse him.

Some days after the period of which I write, indeed, he received a
letter by the carrier, which seemed to increase the frequency and
intensity of these attacks of moodiness; but that had not occurred
when Ralph sat in the room at the Duke of Norfolk's, as I have
mentioned, and the temper or character of his servant had, to his
eyes, all the first sharpness about it.

He was busily engaged in reflections upon all these things, when a
stately servant, who had previously called the others out to the
presence of the duke, came to summon him also, and led him, with slow
and formal steps, to another room on the same floor. Little do the
great of this world know how any stiff, haughty, or repulsive manner
affects those who, reasonably or unreasonably, have been building up
hopes upon their influence or kindness--what luster urbanity or
gentleness gives to a favor intended to be conferred; how, by kind
courtesy, a disappointment is softened and diminished. Very
frequently, the man who will give thousands in charity will not spare
a kind word, although it would relieve pangs a thousand-fold more
bitter than any which gold can touch. Honor, high honor, to that man
who does generous acts generously. There are some such in the world,
and, thank God! I know them; but they are not many.

The manner of the Duke of Norfolk was freezing in the extreme. He
received his young visitor standing; and, before hearing any thing he
had to say, informed him, in a tone cold, though apologetic, that he
was in some haste, as he had to go out. Ralph was the more surprised,
as the duke had established, generally, a character for courtesy in
his dealings with people of inferior rank; but he presented the letter
of Lord Woodhall with the hope that that might produce some change in
the great man's manner.

Such was not the case, however. The duke opened the letter, ran his
eye hastily over it, as a somewhat tiresome ceremony, and then folding
it up again, stood silent, as if expecting that Ralph would either say
something or go. Seeing, however, that the young man remained silent
likewise, he at length said, "Well, Mr. Woodhall, I must think over
this, and will let you hear from me in a few days. Tell my chamberlain
where you are to be found in Norwich."

"I do not think, my lord duke, that I shall be here very long,"
replied Ralph, making up his mind, with the rapid rashness of youth,
to expect nothing more from the haughty nobleman before him; "I have
another letter, however, which I may as well deliver to your grace
now, lest I should not have an opportunity of seeing you again."

The duke seemed surprised, and not quite well pleased; but Ralph took
out the letter which Stilling had brought him, put it in the
nobleman's hand, and was about to retire. The moment the Duke of
Norfolk saw the superscription, however, a great change came over his
face. "Stay! stay!" he cried; "let me see what this letter contains
before you go;" and he ran his eye quickly, but with evident
attention, over the few lines within. Before he had quite done, he
waved his hand toward a seat, saying, "Pray sit down, Mr. Woodhall,"
and then resumed the perusal. As soon as he had finished, he took a
seat himself, and looking upon Ralph with a smiling countenance,
inquired why he had not given him that letter first.

"Because, my lord duke," replied Ralph, "I thought the other from my
cousin, Lord Woodhall, the most important. I do not actually know by
whom the epistle you hold in your hand was written, it having been
sent to me to deliver, without any other intimation; but I suspect
that it came from a person so inferior in position to Lord Woodhall,
that it might have less weight in your opinion than the other."

The duke smiled. "You were mistaken," he said; "we in the great world
learn to estimate matters somewhat differently from others who have
not mingled much with matters of general concern, and we give less
weight than people generally imagine to rank and wealth. Lord Woodhall
is a very excellent nobleman, and my particular good friend; but this
gentleman," and he laid his hand significantly upon the paper, "is a
very singular and extraordinary personage. Even in these days of
infinite oddities he is very remarkable, and, besides his originality,
he is a man of immense power of mind, strong will, vast patience, and
unchangeable in his purposes; probably from a fixed opinion that
certain things are to be, and that it is only required he should shape
his course by them, and follow it perseveringly, in order to succeed
in his endeavors. This turn has been given to his mind by a passion
for judicial astrology, which he imbibed when he and I were
fellow-students together at Oxford. He then belonged to Brazen Nose
College, where that science, or pretended science, was a good deal
cultivated, and although he never made a convert of me, yet I can not
but admit that many of his predictions have had a very curious
accomplishment. For instance, he named to me long ago, that a change,
materially affecting the crown of England, would take place during the
first week of February, one thousand six hundred and eighty-five. I
read the prophecy to imply the death of the king, but throughout the
whole of January his majesty remained perfectly well; and I saw him on
the first of February without one token of decay, either in body or
mind. I imagined my good friend's prediction would fail; when lo! came
the startling news that he had been struck with apoplexy. You know the
rest of the events of that week. His majesty died on the sixth, and a
great change, indeed, took place."

The duke paused, and seemed to give his mind up to memory for some
moments; and Ralph would not interrupt his reveries. At length he
again broke silence, returning somewhat abruptly to the subject, and
saying, "Moreover, my young friend, these two letters are written in a
very different spirit. The first is a mere common letter of
introduction, bespeaking my good offices for a young gentleman going
to see the world. It is not even written in Lord Woodhall's own hand,
though signed by him, and was never calculated to insure you more than
merely the civility of an invitation to my house. The second, however,
demands, in good broad terms, that I shall do whatever I can to
promote your views, with sincerity and zeal; and, good faith, I am
willing to do it, though the terms need not have been quite so
imperative. First, however, I must know what those views are."

"I will explain them in a moment, my lord duke," replied Ralph; but
the other cut him short, saying, "We shall not have time at present,
for I am, in reality, going out upon business of some importance; I
shall be back, however, in a few hours, and the best plan will be for
you to come and take up your residence here for a fortnight or so.
During that time we shall find plenty of opportunity for conversation,
in the course of which I can learn all your intentions, and perhaps
strike out some means of serving you. In the mean time, I will put you
into the hands of my chamberlain, who will provide you with what rooms
you need, and make you acquainted with the customs of the house."

Thus saying, the duke rang a small bell that stood upon the table, and
summoned the chamberlain to his presence. Orders were cordially given
for Ralph's hospitable entertainment, and leaving him in the hands of
the officer, Norfolk went out to ride.

However far the duke might himself have unbent from his stateliness,
the chamberlain remained as dignified as ever. Perfectly civil was he,
indeed, for he had seen at a glance that the young stranger was high
in the favor of his lord; but he was solemn and slow, with all the
rigidity of a hackneyed official, putting a certain degree of state
into the slightest movement, and uttering every word in a tone of
ceremony. He inquired carefully what number of domestics Master Ralph
Woodhall would bring with him, and finding that he was only to be
accompanied by one, declared that that would render the arrangement of
his apartments very easy, adding, with a pompous air, that gentlemen
sometimes came accompanied by as many as twenty, which occasionally
put the duke's officers to some inconvenience.

All, however, was at length arranged, a stable pointed out for the two
horses, a small suite of rooms, at the western corner of the building,
assigned to the master and his servant, and their names duly inscribed
in the chamberlain's book.

This completed, Ralph took his departure, and returned to the inn,
where Stilling was waiting his arrival, with some traces of anxiety
upon his face.

"Well, sir, how has it gone?" he inquired, when Ralph appeared. "Is
the duke courteous or not this morning? for the people here tell me
his mood varies a good deal, according as he has many or few people to
see; mighty civil to the first who come, somewhat short to the last."

"Matters have gone better than I could have expected," replied Ralph;
"thanks, I believe, to the letter which you brought me, for till he
saw that I can not say the duke showed any great urbanity."

"Ay, I knew that would do the business," replied Stilling.

"Why, I thought you did not know who it came from," observed Ralph

"True, I did not know," replied the man, laughing, "but I guessed. I
have a rare bundle of guesses always about me, and they generally turn
out tolerably right. But what is to come of it now, master! When shall
we hear more? I do not like things to stick by the way."

"We shall hear more very soon, I trust," replied Ralph; "but, in the
mean time, you must get ready, Stilling, to take up your abode with me
at the duke's house."

"Hurrah!" cried Stilling, "that is progress, to have effected a
lodgment on the walls already. But I won't lose a moment, sir, for
that which is quick begun is quick ended, notwithstanding all that old
women may say;" and away he went to lead forth the horses and replace
the saddle-bags.




CHAPTER X.


"If you please, sir," said Gaunt Stilling, on the second day after
their arrival in Norwich, as he stood before his young master, who was
seated reading, and had hardly raised his eyes at his entrance, "may I
ask you a question?"

"Certainly," replied Ralph; "what is it, Stilling?"

"Why, only just this, sir," answered Stilling; "I should like to know
if, before you set out, you mentioned my name to any one, or whether
any one else knew that I was going in your service?"

"No one whatever, Stilling," replied Ralph, "except myself, our friend
Moraber, and Mistress Margaret Woodhall, were at all acquainted with
the fact; for I did not mention the subject to my father, as he might
have imagined that I was about to launch into extravagance and
encounter expenses incompatible with my small means, and, moreover,
might have made himself uneasy during the whole period of my absence
with this thought, which I should never have been able to remove from
his mind, although I knew the impression to be wrong."

"Good, sir, good," replied Stilling; "and so now, by your leave and
permission, I will be called Stilling no longer, but, as the old poet
man says, 'your good servant ever;' I have my own reasons, sir."

"But I do not understand you," said Ralph; "do you wish to change your
name, or rather take one that does not belong to you?"

"Yes, sir, any good traveling designation," replied the young man,
gayly. "I am not of the rank or manners to dub myself captain; but any
thing else will do as well."

"As far as I am concerned, it will," replied Ralph; "but do not the
people of the house know your real name?"

"No, sir--no," replied Stilling; "I have waited till to-day to
announce myself, and I know you have not betrayed me; for I was asked
my name yesterday at supper at the third table, and begged time for
consideration and preparation."

Ralph did not at the moment recollect that he had written the man's
name with his own hand in the chamberlain's book, and he readily
acceded to his wishes, not caring much by what name he went. Stilling
fixed upon the designation of Tuckett--Jack Tuckett, and begged his
master to call him so for the future, with which Ralph promised to
comply unless memory played him an unpleasant trick, and brought back
the old name when he was off his guard.

This was all settled, and for a time produced no consequences. Ralph
did not choose to pry into the motives of this transformation; and, to
say the truth, he was so occupied in thinking of the slow progress of
his own affairs that he soon forgot the matter altogether, accustomed
himself to call the servant Tuckett, and hardly remembered that he
ever had another name. Slow progress! Oh, the eager hopes of youth,
how they hurry us on to disappointing conclusions! He had been five
days in the house of the Duke of Norfolk. He had seen more or less of
that nobleman every day, and had been treated by him with kindness and
distinction; but not a word had yet been said in regard to his views
or prospects; and Ralph's spirit fretted within him to find the wheels
move so much more slowly than he had expected.

At length one day the duke sent up a message to his room, importing
that he was about, that morning, to set out upon a visit to a
neighboring nobleman, at whose house the Earl of Sunderland was to
meet him. He thought it might be advantageous to his young friend, he
said, to be acquainted with that nobleman, and he would take him with
him if he would consent to travel without a servant, as the house
would be somewhat crowded.

Ralph smiled when he received the message, and immediately prepared to
go. Stilling, or, as we must now call him, Jack Tuckett, seemed
delighted with the arrangement, and asked permission, during his
master's absence, to make an expedition of his own. His request was
readily complied with; and the two parted not long after, Ralph to
accompany the duke, and the other to go whithersoever his fancy led.

Nothing resulted from the interview with Lord Sunderland; and his
character is too well known in history for me to dwell upon the
impression he produced on Ralph's mind. The young man was naturally
charmed with his winning address, and easy, unaffected manners. There
was about him, too, a tone of superiority and confidence in his own
opinions, which were somewhat impressive to inexperience. It is not to
be wondered at, when men of great powers of mind, already forewarned
of Sunderland's treacherous vacillation, yielded to the peculiar
powers of fascination which he possessed, and believed him sincere and
steady in his convictions, after he had been weighed a thousand times
and found wanting, that a young man like Ralph Woodhall should be
deceived by his pretensions to purity and truth.

The Duke of Norfolk, however, from to time read a comment upon the
conduct of the statesman which was of service to his young friend; and
several of the gentlemen who were present made observations upon
Sunderland's professions, or told anecdotes of his former doings,
which served in some degree to open Ralph's eyes. The time passed very
pleasantly, however. Lord Sunderland seemed to have conceived a great
friendship for the young country gentleman, would take a morning walk
with him, and talk of classic lore and the stores of art in other
lands with eloquence and information such as few possessed. But yet
there was something unsatisfactory in the whole, which Ralph felt
without being able to detect what it was--a want of something,
probably of sincerity and frankness, which deprived his conversation
of much of its charm.

At the end of six days the duke set out on his return, and the whole
party reached Norwich somewhat late in the evening. Ralph found that
his servant had not yet returned; but he was already a favorite in the
household, and one of the duke's men came up to his room, and
volunteered to perform the offices of "Mr. Tuckett."

"There are to be great doings to-night, sir," he said; "it is a ball
night here. A great number of ladies and gentlemen have arrived from
different parts to stay with his grace since you went; all the country
round is invited, and the duke's carriages have gone out to bring in
the company from the town. The state-rooms, too, are open, where every
thing is of gold or silver, even to the tongs and pokers; so there
will be a grand sight."

Ralph dressed himself as speedily as possible in the best array that
his wardrobe would afford, and, receiving directions from the man who
came to assist him as to the way toward the state apartments he had
mentioned, descended without any of those emotions which vanity often
produces in even the practiced in such scenes when they expect to play
a conspicuous part. His mind was set upon higher objects; and he
neither hoped nor wished to attract attention, or to win admiration in
courtly halls. He had to descend--from the second floor of the house,
where his rooms were situated--a large oaken stair-case, from which,
at each landing-place, led away, in four directions, different
corridors leading to numerous suites of apartments; and as, by the
time he went down, guests were arriving thick, the galleries were
thronged with gay groups, hurrying across or pausing for a moment to
look over the balustrades at the parties entering the hall below.
Among the rest, Ralph stopped for an instant to gaze upon the
brilliant moving scene, and, leaning over, bent his eyes upon the
landing-place just beneath. Suddenly a figure passed across, the sight
of which made him start and run down with a quick step. It was gone
before he reached the landing; but if there was any sight in the eyes
of love, that figure, he felt certain, was that of his Margaret.

He hurried on to the state apartments, where more than a hundred
persons were already assembled, while the duke, all affability and
kindness, was standing in the third saloon, receiving his guests, and
saying some kind and courteous words to each. It was a bright and
cheerful scene, and perhaps excelled in splendor the court of royalty
itself; but Ralph had no eyes for any thing but the search which he
made among the ever-increasing crowd for the figure he had seen. The
magnificent pictures on the walls, the beautiful statuary ranged
around--master-pieces of ancient and of modern art--the costly
decorations on which the wealth and taste of several generations had
been lavished, detained him not for a moment; but onward he passed,
till he reached the room where the duke had placed himself. There he
paused for an instant to salute the lord of the mansion, intending to
hurry on immediately after; but the duke called him kindly to his
side, giving him his Christian name as a mark of familiarity, and
introduced him to the bishop and several of the most distinguished
guests. Still Ralph was anxious to escape; but his noble patron had
other business for him.

"Here, Ralph," he said, "this fair lady, to whom I present you,
Hortensia, Lady Danvers, is anxious to see the bowling-green and
wilderness illuminated on this fine night. I must, alas! remain here
to receive all my coming guests, or I would be her guide myself. I can
not, however, intrust her to any one who will supply my place with
gallant courtesy better than yourself, my young friend. Madam, let me
beg you to know and esteem my young friend, Ralph Woodhall, whose good
qualities he will commend to you himself better than any words of mine
could do."

The lady whom he addressed was young and beautiful, and looked younger
even than she really was; for the features were all exceedingly small
and delicately chiseled, the complexion brilliantly fair, while there
was a world of youthful, speaking tenderness in her eyes, a sort of
beseeching look, which seldom survives a long acquaintance with the
great hardening world. She was magnificently dressed, but in a style
peculiar to herself, approaching that of the earlier part of the last
reign, rather than the stiffer mode which was already beginning to
prevail; but her rich brown hair, looped up in great masses with
diamonds, was arranged in a fashion which probably had never found
favor in any country generally; for it required features such as her
own, and a brow as beautiful as hers, to render it at all becoming.
With her the effect was beautiful and picturesque, and she certainly
was as lovely a creature, as she stood there by the duke's side, as
the eye could well behold.

Nevertheless, Ralph would have given all that he possessed in the
world to be free from the task of escorting her; but that could not
be. He had no excuse ready, even if any excuse could have been
available in such circumstances; and bowing low, he said, with the
pardonable hypocrisy of society, that he should be delighted to be her
guide. He knew not, in his ignorance of the ways of courtly life,
whether he ought to offer her his arm or not, and he hesitated; but he
saw many a gentleman and lady passing through the apartments arm in
arm, and bending his head as she took a step forward toward the door,
he asked, "Will you not lean on me?"

"With pleasure," she replied, taking his arm at once; and they walked
on through that room and the next. It must have been difficult for the
lady not to see that her companion's thoughts were not so exclusively
given to herself as she had perhaps a right to expect, or to avoid
noticing that his eyes often wandered from her beautiful face to
different parts of the halls, as if looking for something. But woman
is a strange creature, and very full of varieties. Some persons, of
irritable and all-absorbing vanity, would have felt offended, and
might have shown their anger. Not so Lady Danvers, however. What might
have offended, or rather, I should say, disgusted her more, would have
been the empty compliments and overcharged affectation of gallantry
which were so common in that day. At all events, Ralph's demeanor had
somewhat of the charm of novelty in it; and she seemed to apply
herself diligently to show him that she was worthy of more attention
than he paid her.

For some little time she was silent; but at length she said, in a low
voice, "I think you must be looking for some one, Mr. Woodhall."

"Only my cousin, of whom I caught a glance upon the stairs," replied
Ralph.

"And now you are wishing me far away," rejoined the lady, with a
smile; "but come, let us look for him before we go to the wilderness;
I am quite willing to join in the chase."

Ralph felt his rudeness; and, what perhaps was more to the purpose at
that moment, he was convinced--for he had used his eyes well--that
Margaret was not in the rooms. He had either been mistaken altogether
in supposing he had seen her, or else she had gone to change her
dress, which might, for aught he had remarked, been merely a traveling
costume.

He hastened, then, to atone, saying, "Oh no! I will not lead you such
a chase on any account; nor must you suppose any such rudeness in my
thoughts. I wished but to say two words to my cousin. But it matters
not; I shall find, I trust, another opportunity. Now let us go to the
wilderness; this is our way."

"You are very strange," said the lady, thoughtfully; "I have given you
a dozen opportunities of saying pretty things to me, and you have not
taken advantage of one. I suppose there is not another man in the
whole room who would have neglected any of them."

Ralph was about to put forth some apology, and to try to make some
amends; but Lady Danvers would not suffer him to proceed, lifting her
beautiful soft eyes to his face, and saying, "Stop! not a word of
excuse; I like you all the better. For wits, courtiers, gallants, and
fools I have a wonderful aversion."

"But at all events," replied Ralph, smiling, as they descended the
stone steps to the bank of the Wansum, "you must at one time have
liked courtiers better to choose one for your husband."

"My husband!" exclaimed the lady, with a clear, merry laugh; "I have
no such incumbrance, Mr. Woodhall. I see you do not know much about
me, although I know every thing about you. Now I will tell you all
about myself, which may, perhaps, cheer your task for you. The duke
called me Lady Danvers, for the best of all possible reasons, because
I am Lady Danvers--but in my own right, and not as the appendage of
any husband in Christendom. I and poor Henrietta Wentworth were in the
same position, baronesses in our own right, and great friends, too,
till she went away, though she is older than I am."

"Why do you call her poor Henrietta Wentworth?" asked Ralph; "I should
think to be an independent peeress did not deserve much compassion."

"Oh, ignorant man!" cried his fair companion; "I did not think there
was any one in the whole world who did not know that poor girl's
history. I can not tell it to you fully, for there is much therein I
would not wish to dwell on. Suffice it that she sacrificed all to
love--rank, wealth, consideration, friends, home, country!"

"I envy her," said Ralph, in a serious tone; "methinks that there
could be no greater happiness on earth than the opportunity of making
such a sacrifice."

"For a worthy object," replied the lady, in as grave a tone as his
own.

"And is he not worthy, for whom she has sacrificed all this?" demanded
Ralph, eagerly.

"Not worthy of such a sacrifice in any way," said Lady Danvers,
"except in love for her; there I believe he is perfect. Graceful,
handsome, affable, kind, and brave in the field he is; but I fear much
he is weak, vacillating, inconstant, and ungrateful to all but her: I
speak of Monmouth."

"What, the duke?" asked Ralph.

"The same," replied the lady; and there the conversation stopped for a
moment or two, while, passing over the bowling-green, which was
surrounded by a ring of lights, as if to shine upon fairy revels on
the greensward, they entered what was called the wilderness, where a
number of mazy walks, illuminated by many tricornered lanterns,
afforded ample opportunities for private meetings and whispered tales
of love.

"This is exceedingly pretty," said the lady, looking around her over
the scene, where the lanterns, shining through the green leaves,
produced the effect of a garden lighted by glowworms.

"Yes," replied Ralph, in an absent tone; "but you said just now, Lady
Danvers, that I knew little about you, while you knew every thing
about me. The first was unhappily quite true; the second, I doubt not,
was quite true also; but yet I can not well comprehend how any thing
regarding so insignificant a person as myself can have reached your
ladyship's ears."

"Now have I a great mind," replied Lady Danvers, "to punish you for
all your misdeeds this night, by keeping you in darkness and mystery.
I will even aggravate your suffering by telling you that I desired the
duke to introduce you to me, and leave you to discover the
interpretation for yourself."

"Nay, nay," said Ralph, "I am sure you will not be so cruel."

As he spoke, another party, conversing in gay, laughing tones, passed
along a walk close to that which they were following, and only
separated from it by a thin screen of hornbeam. The lady paused ere
she replied; but when the others had passed, she said, "Well, well, I
will be merciful, and spare you an unquiet night. You are the son of
Mr. Robert Woodhall, of The Grange, the duke told me. I must explain:
I asked him who you were as you crossed the room--for I thought you
very handsome, of course; and I thought you better dressed than any
other man there, because you had less gold lace and embroidery about
you. However, the duke told me; and then I knew all about you
directly. My dear mother, who left me here on earth some eighteen
months ago, was the early friend of your mother, her constant
companion in the days of girlhood, and she has often talked to me
about her. She had her picture ever hanging in her room, and I have
seen it a thousand times; but she always said it did her little
justice--that she was the most beautiful creature in all the world.
Then my mother would tell me how yours had chosen your father against
the wishes of many of her friends, and neglected high station and
courtly celebrity to become the wife of a poor gentleman on whom she
had no fortune to bestow, and how, when she died and left him, he had
abandoned all the paths of worldly ambition which he had opened for
himself, and retired to his small estate with her only child. Once or
twice in the year, a letter passed between your father and my mother,
for they had both loved the same person, and both mourned her as long
as they lived."

There was something so touching in her voice and manner as she told
the little tale, that Ralph, hardly knowing what he did, took her fair
hand and pressed it in his own. Lady Danvers seemed not at all
offended, and entered fully into his feelings toward his mother.

"I am sure I should love your father very much," she added, "for I
have read several of his letters--especially toward the last years of
my own parent's life--and in them he spoke in as beautiful and
touching affection of his wife and her loss as if she had not been
dead a year. I am sure I should love him."

"I think you would," replied Ralph; "though that one deep grief, which
he experienced so early, has made him very negligent of all those
graces which I am told he at one time possessed. He is now immersed in
studies, curious and abstruse, and heeds little else besides his
books."

"Well, you see," replied Lady Danvers, "I have, at all events, an
hereditary right to your friendship; and all I can say is, that if I
can promote your views in any way, Mr. Woodhall, I shall be very
happy."

"To have a right to call you friend, dear lady," replied Ralph,
warmly, "is quite enough, without taxing your kindness further. The
picture you have of my mother must be, I suppose, a copy of that which
my father possesses; and yet I should like to see it."

"Oh, no, it is no copy," answered the lady; "she sat expressly at my
mother's request, shortly after her marriage. It is very beautiful;
the face so full of love, and tenderness and self-devotion. Hers was a
noble sacrifice and I am sure, if she had possessed millions to give
as well as her hand, she would not have hesitated. I can read it in
her face."

"I am glad to hear you speak thus," replied Ralph; "the world judges
hardly of such sacrifices. Her own relations blamed and cast her off."

"The world is very foolish in its estimates," replied Lady Danvers;
"surely the best wealth, and jewels, and rank, and station are
happiness and high qualities, peace of heart and contentment. Case me
in gold, and I am no better, no happier; put me on a throne, I am no
wiser, no better contented; but give me the society of those I
love, health, and enough, and the riches of the world can add very
little--their want take very little away. I would not be the slave to
all this decoration--to the mere ornaments of the human frame or of
human life, which I see the greater number of the women of this land
become, for all that earth can give."

"Nor I either," replied Ralph; "but yet, dear lady, wealth and station
are sometimes needful, not to happiness, but to the means of attaining
that better wealth of the heart."

"Never, I should think," replied the lady. "Let us suppose a case,"
said Ralph. "Imagine that a man, in other respects not ill endowed,
but wanting in riches and in high rank, dares to fix his eyes upon
some 'bright particular star,' and hopes to win it; suppose even
that he has gained love for love, what chance has he of being made
happy--of obtaining her he loves, in short? Friends, relations,
guardians interpose, obstacles of every kind arise, which can only be
overcome by gaining that wealth and station, the want of which is the
impediment."

"Not so, not so!" replied Lady Danvers, eagerly. "Let her he loves be
nobly firm, and bold in affection. Let her do as your mother did; and,
if there be competence, there will be happiness; but really, let us
look about us. We are talking so eagerly," she said, while a warm
blush fluttered over her cheek, "that people will say we are making
love, and the duke will ask me about the gardens, and I shall be able
to tell him nothing. Then will his grace have his good joke at poor
me. However, Mr. Woodhall, whenever you like to see that picture, you
can. It is at my seat in Somersetshire, and if I am absent when you
pass that way, you have but to use my name, and the servants will show
it to you. Bid them treat you hospitably, too, for their mistress's
sake; now tell me, what is this we are coming to?"

"It is the fish-pond--illuminated, too, I see," replied Ralph; "let us
go near the edge and look in. By day one can see down to the marble
beneath. I know not whether this light is strong enough. Yes, it is;
see how those gentlemen, in their gold and silver coats, swim quietly
about, as if their watery world had no strife or contention in it.
They always look to me like the prosperous and wealthy of this earth,
who never seem to dream of all the strife, and care, and agony of body
and of mind that is going on around them."

"Not so with all the prosperous!" replied the lady, in a tone almost
reproachful; "those who are not quite so fortunate often do them an
injustice. They can not see beneath the surface, or know not how often
the heart, which has few or no sorrows of its own, bleeds for the
sorrows of others. Yet so far you are right, I believe. Prosperity may
have a tendency to harden the heart. Without feeling grief or care,
imagination can not picture it distinctly, and we are in danger of
forgetting, in our own tranquillity, the sorrows and the pangs which
are not apparent to the eye."

They continued for a moment or two gazing into the clear water without
noticing the groups that passed by. At length, however, a voice
familiar to Ralph's ear said, loud enough for him to hear, "Yes, very
lover-like, indeed! Do not disturb them."

He started; but the speaker was already going down one of the little
alleys of the wilderness.

"Did you hear that?" said Lady Danvers, looking up with a blush and a
smile; "it is time for us to go back, I think; not that I ever trouble
myself much about people's wrong constructions; but it is as well not
to give them cause for such observations."

Charming as she was, and kind, Ralph was very willing to return; but
as they went, she gave him a frank invitation to visit her, either in
London or the country, adding, with a laugh, "I have always some old
aunt or ancient cousin of the house staying with me, so as to escape
scandal, Mr. Woodhall; and remember, if I can at any time serve you,
and perhaps I may be able, all the little influence I possess may be
commanded by the son of my dear mother's friend."

Ralph thanked her warmly, eagerly; and they walked on through the mazy
walks toward the house with somewhat slower steps, perhaps, than he
would have taken had he been alone.




CHAPTER XI.


There was an old white-haired man of distinguished mien standing by
the Duke of Norfolk, and the latter said, with a good-humored smile,
"You requested me, my lord, to take care of his fortunes. Now I have
introduced him, this night, to the most beautiful, the most wealthy,
and the most romantic young lady in the room, who knew something of
his family, and seemed exceedingly interested in his fate. To make the
matter more complete, I have sent them to take a walk together through
the wilderness and by the bank of the river. Now, I look upon it as a
hundred chances to one that they come back desperately in love with
each other; for, as the dramatist has it, they have 'changed eyes'
already. The lady has no one to control her, and, if I judge her
rightly, she will some day or another bestow hand and fortune upon
some poor gentleman of no rank, just to show the world how completely
she despises the gifts the gods have given her."

"I am delighted, my lord duke," answered the other, "and trust with
all my heart your anticipations may be fulfilled. Pray what is the
lady's name?"

"Hortensia, Baroness Danvers," replied the duke. "She was once a great
friend of poor Henrietta Wentworth, though somewhat more strict in her
notions of propriety. I remember her weeping bitterly when told that
Lady Wentworth had followed Monmouth. Before that, she would not
believe any of the tales that were current. She is a good girl, but a
fanciful little enthusiast."

There were only two other persons, besides Lord Woodhall, near enough
to the Duke of Norfolk to hear his words. One was a very beautiful
girl, who turned red and white alternately as the duke spoke, and the
other was a young gentleman of no prepossessing mien, though the
features of his face were generally good. He had a haggard and
suspicious expression of countenance; and while the duke was
concluding what he had to say of Lady Danvers, the young man addressed
his fair companion, using a good number of the ribald expletives of
the day, not very suitable to the ears of a lady.

"Demme, Margaret," he said, "that would never suit your brother, to
have Master Ralph carry off the rich baroness. Gads zounds! I saw
Henry fluttering round her in London like a blue and pink pigeon, and,
depend upon it, he'll suffer no rivalry from a fellow like Ralph.
He'll pink the book-worm in a minute, if there is any of that
nonsense."

Margaret turned away with a look of disgust, but with a very pale
cheek; and her father presented her to the duke, who received her with
a graceful mingling of gallantry and respect. Lord Woodhall then
introduced his kinsman, "Mr. Robert Woodhall, son of the late Lord
Coldenham;" adding, with a well-satisfied look, "you see, my noble
friend, that I have taken the liberty, in making this little detour on
my road to London, to cast a number of my relations on your
hospitality. My son Henry I think you have seen to-night."

"When monarchs make progresses," replied the duke, with a smile, "they
must always be attended by their suite. Your son I saw half an hour
ago; and if our friend Ralph would but return with his fair lady, we
would have a family dance in the ball-room. Let me offer you my arm,
Mistress Margaret; I think all the guests have arrived by this time."

When they reached the ball-room, they found Margaret's brother already
engaged in the dance; and the duke and his party paused for some five
or ten minutes, gazing upon the scene, while different groups of
guests came forward, said a few words, and passed on. Margaret's eyes,
however, were but little on the gay sight before her, and very
frequently turned to the door by which they had entered with an
anxious and eager glance. Ralph did not appear, however, and at length
her cousin asked her to join in the dance with him. She could not
refuse; and, taking their places, they were proceeding with one of the
courtly dances of that day, Margaret with a pale cheek and inattentive
mind, and Robert Woodhall with no great grace, but with some agility
and skill, when two persons entered the room by the door exactly
opposite to the dancers; and Lady Danvers, in all the splendor of her
beauty, leaning listlessly on the arm of Ralph Woodhall, was before
the eyes of Margaret.

At the same moment, Ralph saw her dancing with Robert Woodhall, and in
spite of all he could do to command himself, his cheek grew fiery red.
Margaret was fatigued with her long journey. She had been greatly
agitated by the words which she had overheard from the lips of the
Duke of Norfolk. She was one of those very few persons who undervalue
themselves, and when she saw the resplendent beauty of Hortensia
Danvers, arrayed and decorated by all that dress could do to heighten
its effect, a chilly feeling of all the perils to which her love and
happiness were to be exposed took possession of her. Her head became
giddy; the objects swam before her eyes; her heart refused to beat and
she sank fainting on the floor. The music was instantly stopped; a
little crowd gathered round; and Ralph, letting Lady Danvers's arm
drop from his own, sprang forward to render assistance. In so doing he
came in contact with Robert Woodhall, who turned sharply upon him,
exclaiming, "Demme, stand back, sir! You are impertinent! Who asked
you to meddle?"

Ralph made no reply whatever, but took him by the collar with one
hand, and forcibly drew him back into the center of the room. Then
taking his place, he bent anxiously over Margaret, by whom her brother
Henry was already standing.

The Duke of Norfolk had observed the whole scene, and had advanced
toward the group gathered round Margaret, without, however, mingling
with it. His voice was now heard exclaiming, "Carry the young lady out
to her own room. She is only fainting with the heat, and will soon be
better."

"Help me to carry her, Ralph," said Henry Woodhall, applying himself
at once to the companion of his youth rather than to his cousin
Robert.

They raised her in their arms and bore her out, Lord Woodhall
following, and saying to those around, "She has only fainted--she has
only fainted. The girl is not subject to such freaks; but that room
was very hot. Pray do not follow--none of you--none of you. We shall
bring her to herself very soon." Henry and Ralph carried their fair
burden into an ante-room at some distance from the reception rooms,
while an attendant ran away to call her own woman to her assistance,
and as soon as they had placed her in a chair, Lord Woodhall said,
"Now leave us, boys--leave us. I will soon bring her to herself. It is
not the first time I have seen a woman faint in my life."

Henry obeyed his father's directions at once, but Ralph lingered for a
moment, saying to the old nobleman, "Can I not render any assistance,
my lord?"

"Only if you can contrive to unlace this stomacher, my dear boy,"
replied Lord Woodhall, who had been fumbling at the various lacings
which went to complicate a lady's dress in those days, but apparently
without much success "Margaret would not mind, I am sure. You have
been always like a brother to her."

Ralph hastened to obey, and with hands which trembled with many
emotions, and associations, dear but agitating, soon unfastened
Margaret's dress and gave her fair bosom freer play. As he did so, the
beautiful girl opened her eyes for a moment, fixing them with a look
of thoughtful anxiety upon his face, and raised her hand faintly so
that it lay upon his. Then, however, came the maid; and as he was once
more desired by the old lord to leave himself and his daughter alone,
the young man obeyed--reluctantly, it must be owned, and not without
more than one glance turned back to her he was leaving. She was pale
and insensible still, having fallen back into a fainting fit again
almost as soon as she had opened her eyes; but the momentary look she
had given him was not to be forgotten, and it was with regret that he
quitted the room.

Instead of returning to the state apartments at once, the young
gentleman wandered up and down the corridor for some minutes; but at
length Lord Woodhall came forth with the welcome intelligence that
Margaret had fully recovered; and with him Ralph returned to the
ball-room.

In the mean time he had formed the subject of conversation in two of
the different groups which that room contained. In one part Robert
Woodhall was speaking eagerly with one or two gentlemen who surrounded
him, saying, "He insulted me, sir--he insulted me; and he shall make
me an apology, or I will know the reason why." The words were
overheard by the Duke of Norfolk, who had just returned from bidding
his guests go on with their dancing, assuring them that the little
confusion which had occurred, had only been occasioned by a lady
fainting from the heat, and ordering more windows to be opened to
admit the fresh air. He immediately turned somewhat sharply toward
Robert Woodhall, saying, "I beg your pardon, young gentleman, he did
not insult you. You insulted him. He shall make you no apology, if he
would remain my friend. Whether he will be content without an apology
from you, must rest with himself. I shall not interfere."

At the other side of the room conversation o

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